


The Ashmere Ceremony

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: Winter's Tales [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bottom!Molly, Complications, Exhibitionism, F/M, Holmes Manor, Kink Negotiation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Riding Crops, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Childhood, Sherlolly - Freeform, Top!lock, Voyeurism, blindfold, casefic, nonzero johntent, secret codes, winterverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six months since the events of Winter, and Sherlock, as always, makes good on his threats. A multichapter Winter's Tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ashmere House

Without turning her head, Molly peeked sideways behind her sunglasses at the driver’s seat, at Sherlock. He was expressionless, his eyes focused far ahead, his dark curls moving in the wind of the car’s motion down the leafy country road. The sky was deep blue with the hue of high summer, and Sherlock drove in silence as he had for the past three hours. North, always further north, past Huntingdon, past Peterborough. The few times she’d tried commenting on their route, he’d just shrugged, and when at last she’d ventured to ask how much farther it might be, he’d ignored her entirely. 

Just now she felt rather like an unwanted child. Not quite the way Molly would have wished to start off their holiday. Especially one like this. Most especially with how things stood between them just now.

She’d waited for him in her flat until the mid-afternoon, growing a bit annoyed at the lateness of the hour; if he’d been more communicative, she could have taken a half-day off instead of a full one. Then her phone had chimed, and she’d gone down, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes leaning against a stone-grey Jaguar convertible, tall and haughty and far too beautiful for anyone’s safety, chased all thought of protest from her mind. 

“Did you pack as I directed?” he’d said by way of greeting, his eyes hidden by dark glasses but seeming to sweep over her form. No doubt he was noting she’d worn the sundress he’d given her the day before, along with a thousand other details he’d file away but never mention.

“Yes,” she replied, holding up the overnight bag. “Though why you wanted me to take ten days’ holiday leave but pack for only one night---“ 

“Molly.” Sherlock gave her a tight smile. “You know our plans. Did you not believe I’d make good on my threats? Now, put your case in the boot and get in the car. We’ve a long way to go before nightfall.”

And that was the last he’d spoken to her, almost the last he’d acknowledged her existence, from that moment to this. 

Even the warm sun couldn’t dissipate the chill that had settled between them. Surely he must realise Molly was still angry about that vile little stunt he’d pulled the other day. 

“For a case,” Molly murmured, her words lost in the roar of the engine. 

_For a case, Molly. To win the trust of the witness, with minimal tedium. Oh, please. I have no interest in that woman. It was just a kiss. You weren’t supposed to see._

At least Molly had no doubt of that. 

Still, the drive had been far from unpleasant, especially since they’d left the motorway; now Molly could leave off holding her hair in place with one hand. She’d find herself a kerchief for the return journey---

But now the Jaguar was slowing, its roar subsiding to a purr, and Sherlock guided them onto a much smaller road that ran along a low stone fence. Molly craned her head to look at a sign as they passed: _Ashmere House,_ it said in blue lettering. _Private Property. Weddings and Events._

Molly blinked. Ashmere House? That sounded rather, well, consequential. Sherlock had mentioned once that he came from country squires…but…

Another turn, and Sherlock eased the car down a little road flanked with ash trees and paved with flat cobbles that rumbled softly under the tyres. A pair of white balloons bobbed cheerily from a small directional sign, but Molly had eyes only for the gatehouse ahead. The lane led up to a narrow archway, and the ivy-blazed walls to either side seemed to loom. 

But Sherlock drove straight through the arch into a small courtyard, bordered on its far side by a much taller building. The graveled area held a caterer’s lorry and a few more small cars. The sight of them seemed to incense Sherlock. 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” he exclaimed, jerking the Jaguar to a stop with a low spray of gravel. He turned in his seat and called over his shoulder. “Brunton!”

Behind them a door opened in the gatehouse, and a man of middling height and build emerged, running a hand through thinning hair. He hurried up to the driver’s side. “’Evening, Mr. Holmes. You’re early. Did you make good time, sir?” 

“What is that lot still doing out there? I want them gone. Now.” Sherlock waved a long hand at the wide expanse of lawn to their right, where Molly now spied a group of people in formal dress, including a woman in a white gown and veil.

“Final photography. Ah, after the ceremony. Just finishing up, I expect,” Brunton said, with a nervous glance toward the lawn. “After this, they’ll want to be moving right along to---“

“Brunton, I assure you I don’t give a toss where they go, so long as they are off the grounds. I’ve gone to some trouble to arrange for Ashmere to be free this entire week, starting at seven-thirty sharp.” Sherlock tapped ostentatiously at his watch. “I can’t begin until they’ve gone, and the gate is locked.” 

“Sherlock,” Molly murmured from behind her fingers. Her eyes flickered over the grand stone building, the ornate iron fence, the park-like land beyond. “You can’t mean…all this…” 

“If you’ll just be patient a few minutes more, sir,” Brunton said, wiping his hands together. “Ah. I do have something for you, as we discussed. Will you wait a moment while I bring it out?” 

“It seems I have little choice,” Sherlock said, but he subsided as Brunton withdrew. Finally, Sherlock looked over at Molly. 

“This… _this_ is your family’s house in the country,” she said flatly. She looked up at the structure ahead, probably only one side of the main house. “This has got to be a listed building, Sherlock.” 

“Grade one,” he replied, favoring her with a quirk of his mouth. “It’s not so large as country houses go. But we’ve held onto it, kept it from the clutches of the National Trust. Ah, here’s Brunton.”

And here I am, little Molly from the terraced house, she thought as Brunton, who had to be some kind of servant, trotted up to the Jaguar again. Sherlock held out an expectant hand. 

“Came by courier from the bank not an hour ago,” Brunton said, passing him a flat case covered in blue velvet. Sherlock opened it, and though Molly could not quite see inside, the ruddy light of the low sun reflected a thousand rainbow glints off its contents. The sparks danced and shifted over Sherlock’s face, which had broken into a grin of almost feral pleasure. He lifted his gaze to Molly then, a fire in his eyes as of jealousy, or greed.

As swiftly as it had arisen, the moment passed. Nonchalant once more, Sherlock snapped the case shut and tossed it lightly into the back seat. Molly saw Brunton tense and follow the flight of the case with his eyes. “Careful, sir---“

Sherlock clapped his hands once, and the man’s head snapped back around. “Well now, Brunton,” he said heartily, “is everything ready? Have all my staff arrived?” 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” Brunton murmured, a line appearing between his thin brows. “And they seem perfectly competent from what I can tell. Though if I may, sir, I don’t see why the house’s usual complement won’t do for your holiday.”

“And I don’t see why it’s any particular business of yours. Have my deliveries arrived on schedule?” 

“Everything you told me about, sir.” Brunton looked distinctly uncomfortable. “The red-haired maid arrived first, that Janet, and she’s been cataloguing the packages as they come in. What did you call her again? ‘Gamesmistress’…?” 

“Ah, Brunton, not to worry. She’s more of an events coordinator, just like you. We’ll leave Ashmere just as we found it, I assure you. And then you can carry on dithering about timings and tour groups and all the tiresome gawping flock of them. Ah, speaking of which.” 

The wedding party was tripping happily in through the wide steel gate, laughing and carefree and sparing hardly a glance for the Jaguar crouched off to one side, nor the man with tumbled dark curls who glowered at them all, nor the slight woman who sank into the soft leather of the passenger seat, trying to disappear. With an appeasing glance at Sherlock, Brunton rushed over to the group and, to all appearances, began to gently remonstrate with them to please hurry, if they would, as the hour was growing late and the property was wanted for the next event.

Whatever Brunton said, it seemed to have worked; the party soon piled into their cars and drove out through the archway, one by one. But even after the lorry drivers left, having efficiently packed up their bags of soiled linen and boxes of glassware, Sherlock didn’t move. He looked expectantly at Brunton, who stood next to the outer gate. 

“You too, Brunton. Out.” 

Brunton appeared to sag, then looked up at the main house with what Molly could only read as deep misgiving. But he entered the gatehouse a final time, emerging with a suitcase and locking the door behind him. He approached their car once more. 

“I certainly hope you trust this new staff, sir,” the man said, fumbling with his keys. “I shudder to think---“ 

“As I’ve told you before, Brunton, all of it will be my responsibility. Do enjoy your holiday in the mountains, and don’t come back ‘til it’s over. Oh, and please remove those hateful white balloons from the marker on your way out.” Sherlock started the Jaguar once more, the sound of the engine drowning out any reply the man might have made. Unmoving, Sherlock watched Brunton drive the last car through the arch, lock the gate behind him, and disappear down the lane.

“Now then, Molly,” Sherlock said, putting the car in gear. “Finally, we’re alone. Well, not at all alone, really, but with only the right company. As you’ll soon see.” His plush mouth curved upward, and he reached over to grip Molly’s thigh, hard. 

Molly gave a small squeak, then blushed hotly at the indignity of the noise. Had any gently born Holmes ever made such a sound? Would she possibly be the smallest, the plainest person ever to walk through---

Then Sherlock turned the corner and drove out onto the big circular drive, and as the front of the house came into view, Molly blinked. It wasn’t huge, but it was undeniably gracious. Six chimneys, a primly symmetrical assortment of windows, wide stone steps leading up to a big front door. Did real people actually live in this place? 

“Quite the old pile, isn’t it,” Sherlock remarked. “Mum decided before I was born that Ashmere needed to earn its keep a bit, so I spent only winters here, growing up. Rest of the year…ugh, weddings.” He cast a cold glance at what looked to be a child’s white shoe lying to one side of the drive. “Messy business, really, but it helps keep the place from crumbling entirely to the ground.”

Molly couldn’t think of anything to say, apart from surely indelicate questions about exactly how much money the Holmeses were obliged to spend each year to maintain their ancestral home. So she said nothing. And in another moment, Sherlock had stopped right in front of the stone steps and engaged the parking brake. 

In a flash a young man was at Molly’s door, opening it for her and holding out a gloved hand with a soft “If you please, ma’am.” Numbly, Molly accepted the hand---it was a real help, actually, as the fancy car was slung quite low---and the gravel crunched under her sandals as she looked up, up, at the grand house that would become her home for the next few days. 

Oh, she’d thought Sherlock would be bringing her to his family home in the country. A large house with a garden, perhaps, where they could enjoy their naughty little games in private. But this was something else entirely. Sherlock had mentioned---private staff. And Molly was struck with a sudden foreboding as she considered: what else had she got wrong?

“Come, Molly.” Sherlock caught her hand and pulled her up the steps. 

Molly glanced back. “Sherlock, my handbag. Our luggage. The blue case---?”

Sherlock tugged her onward, unconcerned. “George will bring it up after he parks the car. Come along, Molly!” 

“Wait,” she said faintly. “Sherlock, just…please. Give me a second.” 

And for the first time that day, Sherlock seemed to really see her, to come back into himself. He paused on the top step, moved his fingers over her cold ones. “Molly. What’s wrong?”

For answer, she came close to him, and slowly he drew her into his arms. Molly stood there in his embrace and closed her eyes for a moment against the stone walls, the immaculate flower beds, the endless acres of green. She laid her cheek against his chest and breathed in the familiar scent of his body. And for a moment, she forgot she was angry with him, forgot everything else.

“This is rather more than I’d thought, Sherlock,” she told him without opening her eyes. “I know it’s just normal for you, but for me it’s a bit overwhelming. You know?”

“Not really.” Sherlock’s rich voice rumbled against her ear. 

“I grew up in a terraced house, Sherlock. In bloody Watford.” Molly looked up at his long, odd, distinctly patrician face.

“So?” Incomprehension in those blue, blue eyes. “What difference does that make?”

“Quite a lot, Sherlock. I don’t belong in places like this. I don’t know how to behave here. How to cope with, well, servants.” Though I certainly won’t act like you did with Brunton, she did not say. 

Sherlock caught her chin in his hand, used his other arm to prison her against his body. “Ha. Well, don’t worry about the help. They…well, I think you’ll find that I haven’t assembled what you might call the _usual_ household staff.” He smirked.

“You hired them just for this week, right? They’re people who…won’t mind knowing what we’ll get up to?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock’s fingers combed through her hair. “They come highly recommended, from sources I trust. As to what you’ll do here, Molly, well. Don’t worry at all.”

“Why not?”

“Everything will become clear in a moment. Now, then.”

Sherlock reached forward, gripped the heavy handle, and opened the double doors. 

And Molly gasped, because in the dimness inside the door were perhaps eight people, men and women, standing in two rows. They were dressed in neat, simple black, and every one of them was looking right at her. 

“Now, Molly,” Sherlock said, raising his voice for all to hear, “pay close attention to me. If you choose to cross that threshold,” he gestured, “you’ll become my plaything. Entirely for me, at every moment, as we discussed. You’ll have your safeword…” He paused. 

“Skull,” the staff said as one, and Molly’s mouth dropped open. 

“But unless you use it, you’ll carry out my orders immediately, and with suitable…enthusiasm. I’ll keep you safe and well, of course, but from this moment to the day we leave, you’ll exist for my pleasure, think only of my pleasure, go farther than we’ve ever gone. If you object, just step back. You can go in the side door, and we’ll just have a lazy little holiday and do nothing much out of what some might call ‘the ordinary.’” But Molly, if you do agree…then step through this door.”

Molly looked up at Sherlock. His face was calm but his eyes were bright with lust, focused entirely on her. And as the silence stretched out, Molly saw, behind his mask of composure, a shadow of…something. Something dark, prowling. Something dangerous. She’d seen it before. 

She shut her eyes a moment. There had only ever been one answer to his challenge. Carefully, deliberately, Molly stepped past the threshold and onto the polished wood of the floor. 

“Good girl,” Sherlock said in her ear, and she cried out in shock as his fist closed hard in her hair. 

“Shears, Janet,” Sherlock said, and Molly froze. 

He held out a hand to the red-haired woman on the right, who turned to pick something up from a table just behind her. She presented a wicked-looking set of scissors to Sherlock, rather like a nurse offering a scalpel to a surgeon. 

Transfixed by her hair, Molly quivered as Sherlock opened the shears, then trailed the cold metal of one blade slowly, leisurely down her breastbone. A sharp snick of metal on metal, and the front of Molly’s pretty new sundress, his gift, fell open. Another snick, and her bra popped open too, ruined. 

Oh, she’d only brought one other change of clothes. And she had no idea where her case had gone. She saw the red-haired woman smile.

The shears continued eating their way down her dress, pausing at her hips to cut through her knickers at one hip, then the other. When her clothes were hanging loose off her body, Sherlock handed the shears back to Janet, and Molly sagged with a relief she could not name. His iron grip on her hair never faltered. 

Sherlock pulled the ruin of her clothes off her body, and Molly flushed hot and red to feel so many pairs of eyes on her naked flesh. Watching, watching. And as his cold hands roamed possessively over her, pinching at her nipples and stroking down her belly, she tensed. His fingers were slipping lower…He was about to find…

“Well now.” His voice grated in her ear, warm with his amusement. “Look what I’ve discovered. Molly, you filthy little thing. What have you done? Answer me.”

Molly moaned as he stroked long fingers freely into the seam of her pussy. “W…waxed. Yesterday. Um, surprise.” She gave a shaky little grin.

“Completely smooth, utterly naked for me. Without even your little patch to veil your slit. God, Molly. That is…ridiculously arousing.” He ground his erection into her hip, and Molly felt his heartbeat throbbing there, hard and wild. “But much as you try to tempt me, love, and make me want to fuck you where you stand, I’m going to prove stubborn and stick to my original plan.

“Now then,” Sherlock said, brutally twisting his grip on her scalp. “You’ve so sweetly provided yourself a means of remembering, at every moment, that you’re now my little pleasure toy. It’s time for me to give you another reminder. Down.”

And Sherlock’s fist in her hair forced her to her knees on the hard floor. Molly went down with a cry that echoed into the vast dimness around her, but she could see nothing but the parquet pattern in front of her nose and the polished black toes of shoes to either side. For a long moment, there was no sound but footfalls. Someone else was walking round behind them, and Molly felt her sandals being taken off her feet. 

There was a sound like the snap of fingers. “Janet.” 

A rustle, a clank, and Sherlock was kneeling behind her. “Hands on your pretty arse, Molly. Open your cheeks for me. Oh, that’s right. That’s right.” 

He leaned over her then, and Molly felt a cold, slick pressure nudge right up against her tightest opening. Oh, oh. She closed her eyes against the first sting of tears. 

“Open for me, Molly,” Sherlock said against her cheek, his fist merciless in her hair, the chilly object pushing relentlessly against her bottom. “Remember your training, all you’ve learned to do for me, whenever I want it. This is what I want from you now, Molly. To take this inside you, and to hold it, so you’ll remember at every moment who owns you now. Breathe, my darling. You can do this.”

She breathed. She struggled to relax. And Molly’s world narrowed down to the cruel thickness of the toy that Sherlock was forcing gently into her arse, and to the warm tears running down her nose and onto the floor. 

Finally, finally, the widest part of the plug slipped past her ring of muscle. Molly moaned in dismay to find that the neck of the plug wasn’t much narrower than the bulb seated inside. And he expected her to hold this? For how long?

“Good girl. My brave girl,” Sherlock whispered, releasing her hair and standing over her. Something was happening above her head, but Molly couldn’t care. She knelt on hands and knees, utterly still, praying for composure. 

Something soft dropped round her neck, and Sherlock’s hand was warm on her bare shoulder. “Stand, Molly, if you can,” he said. “Or, if you find you’d rather crawl, that would be suitable as well. It’s not so far to the dining room.” 

Well, if he was offering her a choice…Molly reached up, found Sherlock’s strong hand. Slowly, shakily, she got back on her feet, feeling every shift of the heavy plug in her bottom, leaning on Sherlock at every moment. Oh, and just five minutes ago on the steps, she’d fancied herself wrong-footed. She gave a weak laugh. 

“Careful, Molly.” Sherlock held her firmly against his body. “You know, on second thought I’ll just take her to rest now.” He was speaking to someone else. “I’ll ring down when we’re ready, and then we can---“ 

“No,” Molly heard herself say. She stood upright, took a steadying breath. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Just needed a minute. I’m…I’m ready to walk.” 

He looked carefully in her eyes, then smiled. And Molly beamed back at him, her chest full of a kind of pride. How strange. 

Almost as strange as finding a soft silk ribbon tied loosely around her neck. Tied like a lead, she saw, with the free end in Sherlock’s other hand. She touched it wonderingly. 

“Not that there’s any doubt now, Molly. To whom you belong. But I do fancy the look of it, you sweet little thing.” Sherlock smiled down at her. “Now, this way.”

Always holding her hand, Sherlock guided her through a room she barely saw, but for a vague sense of high ceilings, rich wood, and smooth carpet underfoot. The room after that had an even softer carpet, and smelled pleasantly of books. And a wood fire, she realised. And food. 

Sherlock came to a stop before a small table set before a carven hearth. “Rest here a while,” he whispered, and Molly sank down, with a sigh of delight, into what was surely her own familiar sheepskin. Deep and dense, it always felt cool for a little while before her skin warmed it up. For few minutes she lay still, hearing the snap of wood in the hearth and feeling the fire’s warmth on one side of her. Oh, it was just like being back at Baker Street, lying by the friendly fire, at her Sherlock’s feet. So safe, so loved, so entirely his. 

His hand, then, stroking her hair. His voice, making the very air beautiful. “Molly, darling, are you hungry?”

She smiled before opening her eyes, remembering how he’d trained her to reply. “If it pleases you, sir.” 

“Then kneel up.” Sherlock was sitting at the table, Molly saw, with a laden plate before him. “You’ll eat from my plate tonight. Open your mouth.” 

She obeyed him, and Sherlock slipped a savoury something into her mouth. The morsel was hot and rich and tasted deliciously of cheese. Soon she was smiling up at him, mutely asking for more. Sherlock smiled back, and fed her from his hand, watching her face with keen pleasure at every moment. 

“You need to eat, too,” she ventured after some minutes, and Sherlock blinked.

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said. “I’ll certainly need my strength for later.” He studied the plate, ate a few bites of food. “Water, Molly?”

“Please,” she said, and Sherlock held the glass and the napkin for her, as they’d done a thousand times. 

“Please, Sherlock,” Molly said again, when she’d drunk her fill.

“Please what, treasure?” Sherlock asked, cupping her chin in his big hand. The fire was giving the only light in the room now, gilding his halo of curls and licking at the sliver of white throat, so deliciously exposed by the opening of his shirt. 

“Please, may I…please you?” Molly said, casting her eyes down shyly. “Sir.” She gave a little wriggle of wanting. A whisper of a draft had been nipping at her breasts, keeping her well aware of the wetness pooling between her thighs and the chill of the metal plug. Which, now she thought of it, had ceased to be uncomfortable and had become, as he’d said, a reminder. 

Of his power. His ownership. Molly opened her mouth, licked her lips, and looked up at Sherlock from where she knelt. 

“Oh, Molly.” Sherlock shifted in his seat. “How you do make my trousers tight. Sweet and willing. But this is impertinence,” he whispered, tilting his head. “To beg me, your master, for what _you_ want. Offering me your mouth in hopes of wakening my desire. Well, you’ve wakened it, little one, but I had not yet done taking my pleasure with feeding you. So now,” he said, smiling gently, “you’ll suffer for that. Janet!” 

His sudden shout startled Molly, and she recoiled just a little, her bottom clenching around the plug. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Molly as the red-haired woman stepped into the firelight. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“The crop, I think, Janet. Yes, the crop will do. We’ll start with that.” 

As Janet withdrew, her smart little shoes rapping efficiently against the polished floor, Molly looked up at Sherlock, whose smile had disappeared. Oh, what had she done? And what would he do to her now?

Sherlock loved pain. Loved hurting her body. Molly knew it, because he’d told her so. 

“I’m a sadist, you know,” he’d said once, conversationally, as she’d lain on his bed and sobbed. Sherlock had leaned over her, pinning her down, slowly and deliberately biting her soft skin. “Cruel to the bone. I adore your sweet voice singing out your suffering. Let me hear it, Molly.” Over and over, he’d set his teeth in her flesh, leaving soft pink marks of ownership, and Molly had felt his cock pressing against her leg like a rod of iron. He’d taken an excruciatingly long time savouring her nipples, and then he’d climbed atop her, pulled her legs around his waist, and roared out his release after only three sharp thrusts. 

For Sherlock, her pain was his pleasure, very simply. And Molly bore it as bravely as she could, followed his lead as far as she could bear. She’d astonished herself, more than once, with how much she could take, how far he could carry her, sobbing but still so willing, down that road.

And now Molly cringed before him, knowing with complete certainty that he’d soon make her cry, and that he would love every burning moment of it. 

Janet reappeared promptly with the crop, the hateful girl. Sherlock took the implement from Janet, then turned back to Molly. “Hands and knees. Present your behind. Quickly.” 

Molly scrambled to obey. To delay would only make it worse, she’d learned. But still, these things usually followed a certain pattern, and so Molly was shocked to feel the crop first, instead of his warming hand. 

His first strike laid a line of fire across her buttocks, and Molly cried out sharply, unbelieving.

“Did I hear a whine in that cry? Punishment, Molly. This way, without a warm-up, it hurts you more. Yes. God, yes. Now, be still and take it.”

Three more times the crop fell, and Molly sobbed helplessly, but Sherlock was panting hard behind her, so very excited. Surely he’d stop soon, and…

“Open your legs for the last stroke, Molly,” Sherlock said thickly. She glanced over her shoulder; yes, he was adjusting his grip on the crop’s handle. Molly hung her head and moaned. 

A whiz, a crack. The leather tab of the crop snapped hard against her glowingly wet pussy, and her scream cut the air. Oh, he’d come terribly close to her clit this time, Molly thought, when she could think again. But that had been no accident. Sherlock allowed no mistakes, in her or in himself. 

In the next moment Sherlock had thrown down the crop and scooped her up, thrown her bodily over his shoulder. “Going upstairs,” he said to Janet as he passed her at the door. “Won’t need…no need to follow.” 

“Good night, Mr. Holmes,” Janet called after them, but Sherlock didn’t reply. 

It seemed then that Sherlock was climbing a set of stairs, climbing endlessly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs. Molly screwed her eyes shut; he’d never carried her such a distance before, and never up a staircase. _I can trust him. He won’t drop me. He won’t. He’d break his own bones first._

Still, Molly sighed with relief when they were on a level floor again. Before long, Sherlock was kicking a door closed behind them, crossing a dim room, and setting her down on a canopied bed covered with cool, clean sheets. 

One lamp burned softly near at hand, casting its creamy light over Sherlock’s body as he swiftly undressed, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor. Oh, she’d never tire of the sleek marble loveliness of him, all that strength in his slim frame---

Then he pounced on her, his cock dark red and angry-looking, a snarl on his beautiful face. He ground out a single word between his teeth. “Belly.” 

Molly turned quickly. Sherlock pushed a cushion under her hips, and then his hand was on her plug. He pulled gently, turning the thing inside her, and Molly gasped and bit her pillow. 

Pressure, aching, a slow release. The plug came free and landed beside the bed with a heavy thunk. Molly hardly had time to wonder whether it had dented the floor before Sherlock’s warm fingers were stroking into her bottom. 

“God, Molly. So open. Perhaps you’re a good little girl after all.” Sherlock’s whisper in her ear was measured, controlled. The crack of a bottle lid. Slick, wet sounds arose behind her; surely he was stroking lubricant onto his cock. “Do you want to pleasure me, Molly?”

“Oh, yes, Sherlock. Sir. Please. I’ll do anything, anything for you. Please.” God, she needed him so badly. Needed his skin. His weight.

“Sweet little slut.” She felt it then, his cock. Its hard length was opening her bottom, sliding slowly, deeply inside as he settled his body over hers. Speared to the core on Sherlock’s cock, Molly breathed in and out, carefully. 

Was she shaking with excitement? Oh, she needed a touch, a merciful release. She opened her legs a little more, straining and reaching, until her clit just touched the cushion. 

Sherlock’s hand pulled Molly’s hair softly aside, and he dropped a kiss behind her ear before taking long, hungry breaths against her nape. He was still for a long moment, letting her adjust. Then, as she’d known he would, he spoke. 

“Do you have any conception of how good you feel, Molly? How warm and tight, clasped around my cock?” 

Not daring to answer yes or no, Molly whimpered. 

“And do you understand,” he continued, his voice grown rough in her ear, “what a delight it is, to bury myself in your bottom, in your heat, and to know all the while that your little pussy is just aching for me?” 

Oh, cruel, cruel. Molly leaned her arse back against him. 

“Yes, my Molly. Your punishment hasn’t ended. It’s just grown more…intimate.” Sherlock rolled his hips, gave her a long, slow thrust, and chuckled at the sound she made. Her cheeks were hot against the cool pillow. 

“Yes. It feels good, doesn’t it. I know it so well, this feeling…and the shame of enjoying it. Indra used to force me to come without touching my cock, remember? Said it built character. But really he just liked to watch me losing to him. Yes. All it took was a long, hard fuck, and I’d be helpless to stop it. Will you do the same for me, my sweet little Molly? Well?”

His taunt niggled at her conscience. “I’m…being naughty,” she whispered. She almost hoped he wouldn’t hear. 

“Oh?” That voice in her ear, so warm with amusement. 

“My clit…it’s touching the cushion.” Molly squeezed her eyes shut. 

His hand slid under their bodies, stroked into her wet folds. “So it is. Stolen pleasure. And you’ll suffer for that too,” he said, so tenderly. “Later. Tomorrow. All week long.” 

A soft, slow pinch on her clit, a promise. Molly gave a sob. 

“For now, I’m quite enjoying the way your bare little pussy feels against my hand. Smooth, soft, swollen. Lucky for you, wicked thing.” 

Molly’s mouth opened in a silent scream. His clever fingers were stroking her, soothing her where the crop had stung. Rolling her clit like a marble in oil. Oh, it was pure evil, what he was doing to her body. 

“Sin.” Sherlock’s whisper carried into the dark depths of the room, into the darkest corners of her mind. “This pleasure. Sin for her who enjoys it, sin for him who forces her to.”

A flash of memory, on her knees, alone under stained glass, cold stone and dust. No. She thrust the image away. She was a woman now---

“But Molly, my own, however much you love my cock up your bottom, and I know you fucking do…I suspect something even worse. I think you crave the humiliation…most of all. Tell me, Molly, what kind of filthy girl gets off on that?”

“I do, Sherlock,” she sighed. She reached up, clasped his other hand, lifted her hips in offering. And she gave a faint gasp as he moved in her, just a little faster, with a little more urgency. “I get off on it. Love being a filthy, nasty girl. Your filthy girl.”

“Ah, Molly. So tight. So warm.” God, his fingertips on her pussy. How well he’d learned her. No resisting him now.

“Going to come, Sherlock.” A sly little thought, a secret held all her life. He trusted her. Would he…? “Please, sir,” she murmured. “Please don’t make me come…like this.”

“Like what, Molly?” His cock swelled in her bottom, and his hard fingers never stopped moving against her wet folds. Oh.

“With your cock…up my arse. Hungry little pussy.” Her mind afire, Molly began to pant, her orgasm coiling in her pelvis, just out of reach. “Please, Sherlock. Don’t.” 

“Christ, Molly, you…Give me your safeword.” Sherlock slowed, trembled, but did not stop.

“Skull. Please! Please, no…” Molly’s heart was galloping, pounding in her ears, as she pushed eagerly back against him.

“Don’t tell me no. I’m going to make you come. Right after I do.” Sherlock’s voice shook. “Feeling my pleasure in your humiliation…that’s what will push you…over the edge. Hot little whore. Take it. Take everything I give you. Beautiful, god Molly, sweet girl, open for me.”

Sherlock hunched over her, drove deep inside her bottom. He was silent for a long, pulsing moment before a shout tore from his throat, short and sharp. Feeling his fluids flooding hot inside her, Molly sobbed, tightened, and came, all the breath stolen from her lungs by his final, piercing thrust. 

A long minute passed, and all either of them could do was breathe, their fingers curling together, the sweat cooling on their skin. 

“Molly. Molly.” His hands on her skin, in her hair. “My own.” He lifted away from her, turned them both onto their sides, curled his long body around hers. 

Sherlock, her Sherlock. Molly lay in his arms, limp and sweetly sore, her mind heavy and soft and warm. She pressed her small hands over his big ones, laid her head on the firm flesh of his arm, and bore silent witness as his heartbeat slowed, slowed along with hers. 

The room was dim, and she was drifting. Sherlock was telling her something, something about how he was obliged to use the bathroom now, because he’d been in her bottom, and how wicked she was to tempt him there. Details. He’d take care of everything, think of everything. As he always did. 

“Molly,” Sherlock said to her, after he’d put out the light and returned to their bed, pulling the coverlet up over them both. “You were wrong, you know. What you said before. You do belong here, in this house. You belong, because you’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” Molly whispered with the last of her wakefulness, and at last, Sherlock seemed satisfied.


	2. House Rules

Molly awoke, chilled. The coverlet felt wrong, too stiff. And why was the wall so far away?

Oh. She turned her head, then leaned up on one elbow. This was Ashmere, Sherlock’s family house, and she found herself alone in a curtained four-poster bed. It stood at one end of a vast, formal bedroom, where sunlight was peeking through rich hangings onto damask walls.

She looked around. Sherlock was long gone, the sheets cold where he’d lain. His clothes, gone as well. Along with all evidence of their little session. Except…

Looking down, she saw that she’d been lying on the soft black ribbon he’d tied about her neck last night. At some point he’d untied the loose knot, releasing her. He’d thought of everything, as usual.

Molly moved to throw back the covers, then stopped short. She was naked, utterly bare, with no idea where her bag had gone, without so much as a dressing gown in sight. She needed a bathroom, but where could one be? Her teeth felt fuzzy, her hair, god only knew. The floor looked cold.

Her eyes settled on the bedside table, where a piece of stiff paper stood propped against the lamp. She blinked, then reached. Here was Sherlock’s own firm scrawl, just blue biro on what looked to be the back of an unprinted menu card, but what she read was anything but ordinary.

“’House Rules,’” she read aloud, then bit her lip. She sat up and peered closely at the card.

 _Rule One. For as long as she remains at Ashmere House, Molly will be for Sherlock’s sole enjoyment,_ she read. _Freed from all other obligations and responsibilities, her goal and purpose will be to serve his needs and indulge his lusts._

Molly’s heart beat a little faster. Oh, this _was_ going to be rather fun, wasn’t it.

_Rule Two. Sherlock will protect and care for Molly in every way. Molly’s safe word is Skull and she will not fail to use it when needed, without hesitation._

And all the staff knew her word. She nodded to herself, then read on.

_Rule Three. When Molly leaves her bedroom, she will be ready for service and wearing whatever Sherlock has stipulated, as well as the small plug in her bottom at all times (subject to Rule Two). Sherlock will give her the large plug at his discretion, as her behaviour warrants._

“Bugger,” Molly said, rather breathlessly, then blushed.

_Rule Four. Molly is to inform her groom of her every need…_

Groom? Molly frowned, perplexed and not quite pleased with that term. She wasn’t a prize mare. Was she to be currycombed, then?

_…and Sherlock will also convey orders through Gamesmistress Janet, among whose tasks is readying Molly for Sherlock’s next requirement._

That redhead again. The one who’d brought Sherlock the shears to cut her pretty dress and the crop to make her cry. Who’d smirked when she’d seen Molly’s composure fall apart.

Well, Molly supposed, every cruel lord needed a henchman. But even if Molly was to listen to this Janet sometimes, Molly didn’t have to like her. She’d safeword in an instant if that…that smug ginger cow tried anything dodgy.

_Rule Five. Over the course of their stay at Ashmere, Molly will confess to Sherlock no fewer than three of her most shameful, unfulfilled fantasies._

“Oh…Sherlock.” Molly exhaled nervously. She could think of one right off…Oh, it was dangerous. Perhaps not.

_Rule Six. For purposes of Rule One, Molly’s pleasure will gratify Sherlock most of all._

Molly smiled, a little less chilly than she’d been. She read on to the last lines.

_Rule Seven. Wifi password for Ashmere Family (hidden network) is mummys_electric_slide_42. Sherlock did not choose this password and Molly will make no mention of it._

Molly’s laughter echoed in the far corners of the room.

“Coucou!” a light feminine voice said, somewhere close at hand, and Molly heard a door creak open on the other side of the bed curtain. “Molly love, you’re awake, aren’t you?”

That voice---so familiar, but strangely out of context. Could it be? “Is that Bridget?” she called eagerly.

“The one and only. What do you say, can I come in? I have tea-a-a!”

Molly’s smile grew to a grin. “Sure, but I’m…not exactly decent.”

“I’ll just bet.” A tinkle of china, and Bridget’s round, sweet face peeped around the curtain, followed by the plump and dainty rest of her, swathed in a pink dressing gown. Along with the rose-patterned tea things she carried, Bridget Choi was the personification of cheeriness, breaking the stillness of the room like the whistle of a kettle.

“Lovely to see you, Molly! It’s been, what, a month now? Sleep well?” Bridget padded in slippered feet around the bed to set the tray on a low table.

“I did, actually.” Molly sniffed appreciatively at the scent of hot scones. “Bridget, you’re a welcome sight. But what are you doing here?”

“Ha. Well, his lordliness is pleased to call me your ‘groom.’” Bridget cocked an elegant eyebrow. “But really, I’m here for the paid holiday. Don’t tell! Oh, and to help you out with…all this. Moral support, bit of massage therapy. And to style your pretty self, of course.” Bridget blinked. “Oh, you need a dressing gown, don’t you. One sec.”

As Molly sat upright, wincing a bit, Bridget pulled something soft and white out of a cupboard. “Here you go, love. Oooh, sore bum? He stung you, then.”

“Um. Yeah.” Molly blushed to her hair. She was grateful when Bridget turned discreetly away, busying herself with the tray, as Molly hurried out of bed and into the dressing gown.

“S’okay. Lord knows I’m not exactly a prude. Seriously, though, are you very sore?” Bridget turned and peered carefully at her.

“No, I’m all right, really. Just, that…um…plug was rather big.” Mortified beyond expressing, Molly had to close her eyes for a moment.

“And his nibs didn’t help matters after. Well, keep me posted. I’m also meant to help Sherlock watch how you’re doing, keep you well.” Bridget sat at the table, then pointed with the butter knife. “Bathroom’s through there, love. Do hurry, or I may just eat up all our scones!”

Molly withdrew, pleased with Bridget’s arrival. Molly could feel herself relaxing, even as she took in the shining white opulence of the bathroom. Having Bridget around would make everything a lot more…comfortable.

And oh, here was her little toiletry kit, next to the sink, with her birth control pills still inside. That was sorted, then.

Luckily there were still plenty of scones left on the plate when she returned. As Molly poured herself some tea, Bridget scooted the sugar bowl toward her across the table.

“Now then. Did you _see_ that enormous bathtub? Going to put you in there after breakfast, all right? His direction: you get a nice hot bath whenever you want one. Two, three times a day if you like. And an afternoon nap. And I’m to force-feed you chocolate.”

“What?”

“Okay, might be taking the mickey with that last one.” Bridget grinned. “But the rest is true. And during haircuts, Sherlock does brag about how he makes you eat chocolate.”

“Sometimes,” Molly said. “If I wake up with him, he usually gives me a parting order….”

Sherlock’s arrogant voice sounded in her mind, drawling out her day’s assignment in the dim morning light of Baker Street. _Buy yourself chocolate today and eat every bit. Take a walk in the park on your lunch hour instead of just wallowing in the caf. Stand up for yourself at work, Molly, in whatever way you like, but do it. I’ll know if you don’t._

Molly congratulated herself, remembering how she’d obeyed that last one by refusing to interrupt a forensic autopsy to find him a box of slides. He’d rewarded her later with a quick spanking and a slow, languid lashing. Of her pussy. With his tongue.

Yes, that had been a good evening. Molly smiled into her tea.

“Still with me, love?” Bridget said around a mouthful of scone.

“Oh. Yeah.” Molly looked up, sat a little straighter. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Bridget swallowed. “I said, you’ll need that nap, see if you don’t. You’ll be surprised how knackered you get, with what you’ll be doing.”

“Oh,” Molly said again, and lowered her eyes shyly.

“At any rate, his supreme poshness is nowhere to be found this morning, but he left orders that you’re to be ready by noon. Oh, we’ve plenty of time, but I thought I’d do something cunning with your hair if you’d like.”

“Sure,” Molly said vaguely. “You haven’t seen Sherlock at all today?”

“Love, I just got up. Catch me rising early! But our cook’s been up since fuck o’clock with the baking, and she said she might have heard a door bang when she first came down to the kitchen, but that’s all.” Bridget poured herself another cup of tea. “Does he do this a lot?”

“More, lately.” Molly set down her second scone without taking a bite. “Sometimes he disappears for a week or longer. And the other day, I saw him…kissing another woman. In the street outside the hospital. Said it was meaningless, for a case, but…”

“Oh, Molly.” Bridget’s brown eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“And what with that, and how withdrawn he’s been, I was rather wondering why he…brought me here at all. Oh, why am I telling you this. Shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Molly turned to the window and opened her eyes wide, very wide, a trick Beth had once told her might help hold back tears.

For once, Bridget had nothing cheery to say. She set down her teacup and gave a short sigh, while Molly rather wished she could vanish. After a moment, Bridget spoke.

“Love, paid holiday or no, if you say the word I’ll snip that bastard’s nape curl right off at his next haircut.”

Molly chuckled, grateful for Bridget’s knack at softening the moment’s tension. “That’s all right. I rather fancy that curl.”

“Oh thank god. It’s my pride and joy. But you know, Molly, Sherlock’s mad about you. Really. He talks of nothing else, and…well…”

Bridget blinked, appeared to smile at herself, then peered at Molly’s plate. “But you can’t be done! Have another scone. For me!” She nudged the dish closer to Molly.

Half an hour later, Molly sat quietly in the great bath, hot water embracing her body. She could hear Bridget bustling and murmuring in the bedroom, likely setting up her styling station.

Molly set wet hands on the cold edge of the luxurious bath. From here she had a view out a wide window: bowering gardens, with the great lawn beyond. She’d just eaten a decadent breakfast: scones hot from the oven. She had---not a maid, but a person whose job it was to help her, make her pretty. All for Sherlock.

Had she become just a toy to him?

He’d clearly gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to arrange this little holiday, but given how he’d been behaving lately…was it for her benefit, or had she become a mere accessory to his self-indulgence?

Molly sighed, and sank under the water.

When she emerged a moment later, Bridget was tapping at the doorframe.  
“That was just Janet at the door. Sherlock’s come back, apparently, and you’re wanted. Ready to get out?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Molly said, and rose from her bath to take a thick towel from the warming rack. “Did he say, um, how he wants me?” Oh, her body was betraying her already…

“Knickers,” Bridget called. “Oh! And these diamonds.” A plump, manicured hand appeared through the crack in the door, waving that blue velvet case. “Janet handed them off just now. Made me sign a paper! ‘Chain of custody,’ she said. Bit uptight, her, don’t you find?”

“Antique diamonds, though? Don’t know how much they’re worth,” Molly called, shrugging her dressing gown on again.

“Oh, something, probably,” Bridget answered. “Wouldn’t know. I’d make a terrible cat burglar. Blush easy, dead useless at lying. Oh, well. All dry? Sit down here, then. Let’s do up that gorgeous hair of yours.”

The roar of the hair dryer kept them from chatting for a while, and Molly had time to think again about Sherlock’s rules, and the fantasies she was to confess. Did he plan to indulge her? No doubt he’d add his own wicked twist…

She’d think about that one fantasy later, consider whether to mention it at all. He might…not like it.

As for the second and third...Molly let her mind run wild, allowed all her naughtiest little imaginings to creep through her mind as Bridget’s nimble hands worked their magic. She’d just come up with a few likely contenders when Bridget spoke again.

“Oh, forgot to tell you, love. Your handbag’s in the cupboard there, along with your change of clothes. And I hope you don’t mind that I plugged in your mobile last night. It’s on that shelf whenever you want it.”

“Thanks, Bridget. Yes, that’s fine.” Molly smiled at her in the vanity mirror.

Molly’s hair was soon arranged into a rather fetching crown of plaits, well secured by pins “in case he gets grabby,” Bridget said, grinning at Molly’s blush.

“Now then, love. Let’s see what all Janet’s fuss is about.” Bridget took up the velvet case, opened it. “Oh, how pretty! Look, Molly.”

Molly looked. “Yup, it’s a diamond necklace, all right.” It was pretty, she supposed, all festoons and droplets and flashes of rainbow. Still, she couldn’t imagine herself wearing such a thing---

“And a few other bits and bobs in the case too,” Bridget pointed out. “Seems we get to see all the Holmes family jewels, ha! Looks like a bracelet with an emerald on it…something green, at any rate…an old ring…and clip-on earrings! Ugh, are these hideous?”

“They truly, truly are,” Molly said, picking up one of the clods of gold. “Are they from the Fifties maybe? God, they’re heavy.”

“I’ll get them out of sight, then, shall I? Thank goodness you’re only to wear the diamonds.”

A sharp knock at the door, an impatient female voice outside. “Five minutes.”

“That’ll be Janet. Let’s get you finished, then.” Bridget plucked up the glittering necklace and, to Molly’s surprise, draped it over her hair and forehead.

“This is what Sherlock said he wanted.” Bridget winked at Molly in the mirror, swiftly pinning the necklace to her chestnut plaits. “Oh, that’s just brilliant, Molly! But no time to admire. Let me just add a bit of stain to your lips…okay.”

Bridget snapped the tube closed, then bustled over to a chest of drawers, pulled out a little pair of white, lacy knickers, and tossed them into Molly’s lap.

“And this is…all I’ll be wearing downstairs?” Molly asked, taking up the silky scrap in fingers suddenly gone clumsy. The diamonds felt heavy and cold on her head---she could feel the centre droplet shivering at the middle of her brow---

“And this.” Bridget opened a black box, showed her a piece of stainless steel nestled inside its satin lining. Delicate, mirror-smooth, shaped unmistakably.

Molly’s mouth went dry---she remembered the house rules. “Oh, Bridget. I’m not sure I can do this.” She looked up, heart pounding.

Bridget’s eyes were kind. “Then don’t,” she said simply, and placed the box on the table by Molly’s arm. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Simple as that. He’s impetuous, but he’s a good dom. He’ll understand.”

Molly closed her eyes a moment, and saw Sherlock’s face. Saw his plush lips parting, his eyes gathering darkness, his hands reaching out to touch, to take. Molly took a breath.

“No, I want to,” she said. “I will.” She stood, and loosened her robe.

&&&&&

“Molly. Is that you?” His voice floated out from beyond the great door like a roll of thunder. 

Molly looked back at Janet, once, her arms folded tightly over her bare breasts. The red-haired woman gave her a curt nod, then turned to walk away down the long hall, taking Molly’s dressing gown with her.

All right, then. If this was what his lordship had decreed. Shivering a little, Molly straightened, lifted her chin, and walked forward into the light-filled room. A vague impression of tall windows, dim paintings, an immense carved mantelpiece. But Molly had eyes only for the single large wing chair at the head of a long table.

From behind the chair, the quiet ringing of a spoon on a saucer. “Come here, Molly.”

She swallowed, crept carefully forward. Oh, why was she trying to be silent?

Then a long hand snaked out from behind the chair and caught her wrist. She stopped short and, treacherously, her heart skipped a beat.

“Don’t hide your breasts, Molly. Come, turn for me. Let me see you.”

Sherlock was lounging against the upholstery, naked to the waist, with a few tiny leaves in his dark curls. A thin line of red over one cheekbone still wept ruby droplets, and his trouser legs were muddy above bony feet as bare as her own. 

“Sherlock, you---” Molly’s hand darted out to touch his cheek.

“Never mind that,” he said, and his quick slap stung her bottom. “Turn around. I won’t tell you again.”

Her breath grown shallow, Molly angled her foot on the Persian carpet and turned, as gracefully as she could. For his part, Sherlock steepled his fingers and looked her up and down, with the supreme insolence she’d come to know as his master’s face. 

“Stunning,” he pronounced. “Exquisite. My diamonds belong in your hair, clearly. The sparkle suits you...shows off your every tremble. Tell me, Molly: are you cold, or aroused?” He flicked a hard little nipple with one thumbnail. 

“Both,” she whispered. “Um, Sh-Sherlock…”

“Yes, treasure?” His fingertips ghosted down her belly.

“Why did you want me to wear knickers?”

“Why? So I can slip my fingers inside them,” Sherlock replied, toying with the edge of the delicate lace. “So I can make you pull them down for me.” He smiled at her gulp. “Later. For now...I trust you found my house rules? Molly...have you followed Rule Three?” His hand slid across her bottom, lower.

“Yes,” she murmured, dropping her eyes as his fingers touched what they sought. The little plug had warmed with her body heat almost as soon as she’d placed it, and its perfect smoothness was gentle, but its weight kept reminding her of its presence.

“Good girl,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers for a moment. Then he drew back, and parted his legs. “Now, on your knees. I want to come.”

Oh, oh. She knelt swiftly, her heart pounding as he undid his trousers. God, her mouth was already watering for him, and she let out a tiny mewl of wanting as he freed his lovely long cock with a sigh.

In a moment, Molly had taken that cock in deeply, lavishing tongue and lips on his warm flesh, savouring his deep, wordless murmur of desire, the feel of his hands on her hair. She sensed rather than saw his head fall back against the chair, felt his hard thighs tense under her hands. 

She knew what Sherlock wanted of her when he used words like those. Molly drew on him swiftly, firmly, pressing with her lips until she could taste his first salty drops. Then she relaxed her throat, showed him once again her special talent. Familiar, now, his heavy gasp as she offered up this particular pleasure, but no less satisfying for her.

In a bare few minutes, Sherlock was groaning her name to the chandelier, pulsing out his hot climax over her tongue. And Molly, knowing what he loved, whimpered sweetly as she swallowed, again and again, until Sherlock was spent and smiling above her. 

“My Molly,” he whispered. “How I love you. You, all of you, but now especially your filthy little mouth.”

He took her hands, then, and drew her up, inviting her to curl into his lap. Sherlock pulled her against his warm skin, held her there tightly. Molly sighed, enjoying her own arousal from performing the act of service, knowing that his denying her release now was another of his games, a tease, and a promise of something special later. 

“Molly,” he said into her crown of plaits. “I can’t, I still can’t believe you’re here. Here in this house…”

“Sherlock,” she murmured against his chest, listening to his slowing heartbeat under her ear. She’d caught a strange look in his eyes just now, a fey look, as if he’d seen his own ghost. Perhaps he had. “Where have you been this morning? Your cheek is bleeding…”

“Walking the grounds,” he told her after a moment. “I set out to make sure the outer fence is secure and none of the motion sensors are faulty. Keep us safe while we’re here. And I did that…but then I noticed an old trail in the woods.”

“And you followed it,” she said, pulling a twig out of his hair.

“I found my old treehouse.” Sherlock looked down at her face, brushed away an errant strand. “What was left of it. And that.”

He gestured, and Molly saw on the table an elephant toy, faded and dirty. “Property of WSSH” had been penned onto the brittle plastic in the firm, resentful lettering of a small child who’d had it stolen too many times.

“This was yours,” Molly said, reaching out to touch it.

“Spied it caught in another tree. I didn’t put him there. I’d always wondered what happened to Peter Oliphaunt, and now I know. Ruined my shirt, climbing.”

“Mycroft?” Molly’s eyes narrowed. She’d never quite forgiven Sherlock’s brother for what he would have done with him at the end of last year, had Moriarty not appeared to return.

“Possibly. I wasn’t a favourite with most of the staff, either.”

Molly had nothing to say to this. She ran gentle fingers over his bare shoulder, looked over at the grimy elephant. Presently, she ventured, “Do the grounds look much different from the last time you were here?”

“Oh yes. Strange to see it so lush and green. You’ll recall I never lived here but in fall and winter? Bit cold in that treehouse. But at any rate,” he said heartily, “the fence seems solid, and all the motion sensors are functioning perfectly. The gates are locked. We have perfect privacy inside and out.”

“Well, except for your staff,” Molly said slyly.

“Oh, they’re your staff, really. Cook and maids and a footman so you’re not tempted to lift a finger to keep us comfortable here. Bridget to care for your person. Janet to set things up for us, bring us everything we need.”

“Um, Sherlock...about Janet. Can she…tell me what to do? Because I wouldn’t agree to that at all.” Molly looked soberly up at him. 

“Neither would I. No, Janet’s just my left hand, really. She’ll tell you ‘when’ and ‘where,’ and enough of ‘how’ to ready yourself, but she’ll never give you an order that’s not directly from me.” Sherlock gave her a wry smile as he toyed with one of her plaits. “But when you get right down to it, she’s here for you as well. To smooth and direct your path.”

Molly laughed. “Oh, Janet’s here for me, is she? What about you, lord of the manor?”

“Please.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Look at the state of me. I didn’t hire myself a valet. If I want a bath, I draw it myself.”

“You do need a bath, you know.” Molly smiled up into his face, watching his eyes as they slid down to gaze at her with a chilly twinkle.

“Probably. Let’s take one, my pretty little pleasure slave.”

And with that, Sherlock stood, still holding Molly close, and carried her out of the room.

“Wait, Sherlock,” she said, and tapped at his shoulder.

“What now?” He stopped in the hall, between one door and the next, and looked down at her. He seemed to read her intent, for he gently set her on her feet and stepped back a little, schooling his expression into a neutral mask.

“Sherlock, I’m not…quite ready for you to sweep me away again,” Molly said, looking away from the warm light on his face. She needed to concentrate on her words. Words she didn’t want to say, that must be said. “I need to talk to you, first.”

“Oh? What about?” Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets, dropped his eyes to the floor.

 _You know exactly what about._ Molly tamped down a flare of annoyance. Instead, she steadied her voice and spoke evenly, with as much dignity as a mostly naked woman could muster. “About you kissing that woman.”

“I already told you. It was for a case. I needed her testimony, quickly, and I calculated the most expedient approach. My emotions didn’t come into it.” Sherlock never looked away from the floor.

“But it hurt me, Sherlock. Quite a lot.”

Sherlock seemed to shrink where he stood. For once, he had nothing to say. The silence stretched.

“There was a time,” Molly said, still in those empty, patient tones, “when you refused to kiss someone, because you’d promised to keep to me. Do you remember?”

Sherlock looked up, frowning. “Yes. But I _wanted_ to kiss Indra. Oh, don’t you see? I couldn’t kiss him until you told me I could.” Sherlock ran a nervous hand through his curls; another tiny leaf fluttered to the floor. “Because he…and I….”

“You were lovers once, and I respect that.” Molly smiled a little, thinking of the tall, saturnine man, Sherlock’s friend, his teacher in so many ways. “You have a long history with Indra that has nothing to do with me---“

“That history has everything to do with you,” Sherlock said, then turned away and spoke to the wall. “I just…Molly, Indra matters to me. But that woman…I hardly remember her name. I could see that she wanted me, wanted to trust me. I saw an opening and I took it.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly wrapped her arms around herself, cold once more. “Why didn’t you consider how I’d feel?”

“I…don’t quite know. It felt so different to kissing you. Just…contact between two oral orifices, one of which was smeared with decidedly foul lipstick.”

“Don’t insult the poor woman, Sherlock. It doesn’t help your cause.”

“Do you want me to say I regret it, Molly? Because I very much do. I wish you’d never seen it.”

Molly felt the beginning of a sob knotting in her throat. “So…would you do it again if you were sure I’d never know?”

“I would know. The fact of it has hurt you, so I simply won’t use that particular technique in future,” he said lightly. His mouth quirked up. “I’ll consider it a challenge to my interrogation skills.” 

_You used to do it to me, to get what you wanted,_ Molly couldn’t help thinking as she watched him watching her. _Manipulate. Sometimes I wonder if you’re still doing it._

“Besides, human mating behaviour is most similar to that of birds, did you know?” Sherlock was saying, with that false heartiness she hated so much. “Mostly monogamous, with covert adultery. And something like ten percent of people were in fact sired by someone other than the man they believe to be their father. Oh yes, that’s true,” Sherlock said, seeing the expression on her face. “Non-paternity rate. It’s all there in the scientific literature if you care to look.”

Heat rose into Molly’s brain, and something hardened inside her. “I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life,” Molly replied, looking Sherlock square in the eye. “I never would. And I expect the same, no matter what the literature says about it.”

“It’s not even the contact that bothers you, is it,” Sherlock said, dropping his gaze. “It’s…the lie of it. My intent to lie by omission.”

“That’s right,” she told him. Perhaps he did understand, for all his prattling. “Listen to me, Sherlock. No more lies.”

“Or you’ll leave.” Sherlock turned away.

“Or I’ll leave.” She could hear herself, and her voice was soft and small as ever, but she was proud that she didn’t let it quaver. “Do you hear me, Sherlock?”

“I hear you,” he said to the wall.

Another silence, and Molly listened to her pounding heart, knowing that she’d said exactly what she needed to, but hating it, hating all of it. 

Finally, Sherlock turned back toward her. “Damn. I’m still cocking up all this...this...more-than-sex. Please believe me when I say…I never intended…I’m a fool, Molly, but I am yours. I want to be yours.” He worked his mouth. “Please.” 

Molly looked up into that beautiful, strange face. Would she ever really understand him? This man, who had taken her to his childhood home to plug her, crop her, and fuck her, but had still omitted for days to share one particular intimacy? “Do you know, Sherlock,” she ventured, “you haven’t kissed me once since it happened?”

“I know. I felt...Molly, please.” He actually put his hands together. “Will you forgive me?”

Molly sighed. Loving Sherlock Holmes would always be painful, somehow. She had no illusions about that. And perhaps he didn’t have it in him to be true to her, in all the ways she needed him to be. Perhaps she would need to leave him someday, as best she could.

But still, he was Sherlock, with all his beautiful gifts, in all his ugly glory. Whether she remained at his side or…not, she loved him. Always would do. God help her.

“Yes, Sherlock. I forgive you,” she told him quietly. “I’ll give you another chance…to really, properly be honest with me.”

“Molly.” Looking as though he were about to weep, Sherlock bent and pressed his lips to hers. He kissed her breathless, kissed her until Molly’s feet, standing on tiptoe, began to ache and she dropped away from his mouth with a smack. Looking up into his face, Molly hid a smile at his blink of surprise.

“Was so hungry to kiss you,” he murmured. “Utterly illogical though that turn of phrase may be. Now, what do you say? May I pick you up again?”

“Yes please…sir,” she replied, suddenly eager to leave this painful business aside for the moment. Yes. To play their games would be such a relief. 

Sherlock smiled, then all at once, he lunged. Molly gave a great gasp as he swept her legs out from under her, hefted her against his body. Twining her arms around his neck, she laid her head on his bare shoulder, and willingly, she closed her eyes. For now.

When she opened them, Sherlock was carrying her down another hall and into another tall room with a parquet floor. Had she been here before? Hard to say. She’d need him to show her around, or at the very least explore on her own, but---

“Up we go,” Sherlock said, turning toward a carpeted staircase. Molly gave a playful squeal and held on tight as he climbed the steps, a little too fast for her taste. But now they were moving down a long balcony---Molly’s feet were dangling over the railing, over open air---and then Sherlock shouldered open a door and set her down in the small, dim room beyond. 

Molly looked around. There was only a single bed, and a wardrobe whose open doors showed her his clothes, neatly hung as was his habit. His suitcase stood in a corner. The wallpaper was, rather astonishingly, patterned with cheery owls. 

“Sherlock, was this your room, growing up?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, just opened a side door and took her hand. “Come into the bathroom, Molly. My mother’s most recent update to the house was its greatest improvement in centuries, I find.”

“No doubt,” Molly said, closing the door behind her and looking at the chrome fixtures, white tile, and enormous bathtub that graced the centre of the space across from the great window. Water pipes ran over the walls and ceiling, but someone had hung a green plant or two from the exposed plumbing, to charming effect.

“They used Mycroft’s old room, since mine was too small. Ha. I do love bathing here,” Sherlock said, crossing to the tub and opening the taps so that hot water roared against the shining porcelain. 

He quickly drew off his trousers and tossed them onto a chair. “Ugh, I wish these weren’t soiled with mud,” he said. “I’d really rather not unlock the gates to have them sent out...”

“What do you mean, unlock the gates?” Molly asked, curious.

“It’s to ensure our privacy,” Sherlock said, still examining the fine fabric. “No one enters, no one leaves. Even the network is monitored. No one uploads any large files from their mobile without me knowing, especially photos. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep the Daily Mail from getting wind of what we do here. Damn, these really are filthy,” he continued as if to himself, examining a trouser cuff. “I could bin them, I suppose, but it’s rather a shame…”

Molly laughed, and Sherlock looked up sharply. “What?” he said. 

“You. Dithering about your trousers. You sound so...ordinary.” Aside from his considering throwing out a pair of bespoke trousers simply because they’d be inconvenient to clean, of course. 

“Oh, would you like me to be a bit more extraordinary?” He walked to lean casually against the side of the great tub, then smiled at her with narrowed eyes. “Come closer.”

“Um?” Molly backed up a step, crossing her arms. That look in his eye…

“You’re doing it again, Molly. Covering your breasts. What have I told you about hiding your breasts from me?” Sherlock stood and advanced on her, tall and lean, and seized her wrist. “Kneel, here on this towel. Lean over the tub. And take down your knickers, you bad thing.”

Gulping, Molly arranged herself against the side of the bathtub, her shoulders, neck, and face caressed by whispers of billowing steam as the tub continued to fill. Her heart already beginning to beat faster, she reached back and slowly pulled the lacy scrap of fabric down over her bum. 

“God, Molly.” Sherlock’s cool fingertips stroked her thighs, lightly touched the tender folds that peeped from between her buttocks. “I haven’t yet grown used to seeing you like this, hairless. So naked.” 

“Don’t get used to it at all,” Molly called back over the rush of the water. “Special occasions only, you know.” Evidently she was still a bit peeved with him.

“Oh, of course. You’re a woman, not a topiary. But just now you’re presenting me with a decidedly tempting target, my Molly. I’m not sure whether to lick you or smack you. Let me see, now.”

He landed a light, sharp spank across her bottom, and Molly hummed as the heat of it bloomed across her skin. Almost involuntarily, she lifted her bottom for more. 

“Another? Naughty,” Sherlock said, and gave her one, this time pausing to toy with her little plug. “Bad, bad little pleasure girl, to hide your breasts from me. Say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry I covered my breasts, sir,” Molly replied as he landed another, and another. Soft, frustrating little slaps, almost playful. Oh, why wasn’t he giving her a real spanking?

“Please, Sherlock,” she murmured, laying her cheek against the rounded edge of the bathtub. “Punish me for it. Properly.” 

“Ah, lovely when you beg to be chastised. How I’ve twisted you. But Molly,” he continued, letting a bit of sarcasm drip into his voice, “do you deserve a proper spanking?”

“Y-yes. I hid my breasts, I backed away from you just now, and---oh!---this morning I hesitated to put my plug in.”

“Quite, quite bad, particularly that last,” Sherlock agreed, still giving out those infuriating little taps. “But still, can you guess at why I’m not giving you all you deserve, at this particular moment?”

“Um...because...of the bathwater?” The tub was nearly full, and with this much steam, the water would be torridly hot.

“My clever Molly. If I spanked you as hard as you desire, as hard as I desire, this hot bath would hurt your sweet skin. Now then, my lovely, naked thing,” he continued, holding his big hand against the slightly pinkened flesh, “let’s go one step further. As much as I adore your pain, can you tell me why I might wish to avoid that effect? Think.”

“Ah…” Even as her body throbbed with wanting, Molly turned the situation around in her head, thought of Sherlock and all he was as a man, as her dom. “Because...because you don’t want me to hurt, unless you’re the one hurting me?”

Sherlock rewarded her with a heavy wallop, leaving her gasping and tingling with the delicious sensation. “Good girl. My good girl. You understand me so well. Your pain is mine. And your pleasure, oh yes, is also mine. Now,” he said, standing upright, “get into the bath.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly nearly wept. He’d worked her up, teased her, let her hope he’d touch her. Cruel, cruel, to make her wait even longer for him.

“Hot little thing.” The rich sound of his laughter. “Obey me at once, or I’ll tie your hands to the doorknob and make you wait for me to bathe. I’ve got rope in every room in this house, so I’d urge you not to test me on this point.”

Biting her lip, Molly stepped out of her knickers and climbed into the enormous bath. She sat down carefully, but sagged with mortification when her steel plug gave a little clank against the porcelain. 

“Forgot about it for a moment, did you? Good,” Sherlock said, pulling off his own underwear and tossing them aside. “You’ll be wearing it quite a lot, after all.”

Mm, that lovely erection of his. Molly squirmed, then bridled at his expression as he sat down opposite her, his legs lightly touching hers. Oh, he was laughing at her again! 

“Poor, desperate girl. Patience.” Smirking, Sherlock tipped his head back and slipped below the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milles mercis to my amazing betas: miz-joely, ariel_x, asteraceaeblue, and liathwen, as well as World's Best Britpicker aberlioness!


	3. Diamonds

Sherlock surged up out of the bathwater, tossing his head and gusting out a sigh of pleasure as he ran long fingers through his wet-black curls. He looked like nothing so much as a pin-up in motion, and worse, he knew it. Molly fumed a little at the grin he tossed her way. Oh, he was determined to torment her, wasn’t he? He’d barely spanked her, barely touched her, given her almost nothing since the dining room, where he’d bade her kneel to service him with her mouth. And now, he was blatantly showing off. Molly fairly trembled in frustration.

“Here, Molly,” Sherlock said, handing her a bottle and turning to sit between her legs. “I’m in a fine fit of indolence today. So wash my hair.”

“Yes, sir.” Taking a breath for patience, Molly lathered his curls, tossing a final few tiny leaves to the tile floor, and waited while he rinsed.

“Now the rest of me.” Sherlock stood in the bath, water streaming from his ivory skin and clinging to his sparse body hair, and gave her an evil smile.

Molly gulped. Her soapy hands stroking his skin, gliding over all that firm muscle, that wiry slenderness. His languid fingers reaching to toy with her nipples, too gently. His deep hum of appreciation as she touched his cock, carefully drawing back the silken skin to wash the sculpted curves of glans and frenulum. After she’d rinsed him, Molly couldn’t resist leaning in to touch her tongue to---

“No, Molly,” Sherlock said above, looking down at her and shaking his head in mock regret. “Don’t be impatient, now. Hand me a towel, there’s a good girl.”

Sherlock briskly dried himself, and Molly followed more slowly. At his word she knelt on a soft rug, wrapped in a warm towel, as Sherlock leaned toward the wall mirror. He commenced to shave, ignoring her completely, or so it seemed. For when she slipped a quiet hand between her legs in hope of sneaking a little release, Sherlock turned to her and smiled.

“So naughty. No touching. Remember the house rules. What happens to you when you’re bad, darling?”

“Punishment plug,” Molly whispered, unable to meet his eyes. She folded her hands.

“That’s my girl,” Sherlock said, and lifted his razor once more to scrape far too meticulously at his chin.

An eternity later, Sherlock turned from the mirror and extended a gallant hand. “Up, Molly. Close your eyes.”

Taking his hand, she climbed to her feet and let her lids drop closed as he stepped back. For a long moment, there was only silence and stillness as she waited for his touch.

But then she felt the caress of suede against her eyes. He was giving her a blindfold, securing it well around her crown of plaits. Then he was lifting her again, cradling her against his chest.

“I hope you don’t mind, darling,” Sherlock said into her hair. “But I do love to carry you. Mine, my plaything.”

He was bearing her away, and in a moment his footsteps grew quieter. Walking on carpet, then. It didn’t take long before Sherlock was setting Molly down onto a satiny bed, bidding her stay on her back as he ran his big hands possessively over her body from cheek to curling toe. Disoriented, Molly wondered what the room looked like, or even what colour these silken sheets were, but his touch was so warm, so worshipful, and she was aflame with longing.

“Please, Sherlock,” she said.

“Please what, my Molly?” He was standing next to the bed now; Molly heard a brief rustle, and then he was pulling her hands up over her head, winding her wrists with his favourite smooth rope and securing them to something solid. Molly waited to reply until he’d finished.

“Please touch me,” she whispered.

“But I am touching you. Clearly.” His mouth close to her ear, his hands lingering on her ribcage, feeling her panting breaths.

“Sherlock…” Molly turned her face against one arm. With no sense of the space around them, she felt as if she were floating. He was all that anchored her to earth.

His voice, rich with amusement now. “Open your legs.”

She obeyed eagerly, and was gratified to hear the smallest gasp from him.

“Pretty bare pussy,” he said, moving down to set his cheek fondly against her inner thigh for a moment. He shifted, and Molly shivered to feel cool droplets from his wet hair dripping and trickling on her naked sex. “Would you like me to taste your sweet little pussy, Molly?”

“Please!” Arching her back, Molly lifted her hips, seeking that wicked mouth, that deliciously rough tongue. Oh, he’d tease her for ages, wouldn’t he, before---

Then Molly felt his cool hair low on her belly, felt his gentle kiss on her clit. Molly moaned, and Sherlock dipped his head and licked at her, long and lingering.

“There now, treasure,” he said, fingers toying now with her tiny plug. More unbearably delicate flickers of his tongue on her pussy; it was all Molly could do not to push against his mouth.

A small pressure, and then Sherlock had pulled her little plug free from her bottom. Molly felt the bed shift, heard the crack of a lubricant bottle.

“No, Sherlock. Please.” Would he satisfy himself in her arse again, selfishly, and leave her pussy still aching with want? Petulant, Molly felt the first sting of tears behind the blindfold.

“Never fear,” Sherlock said against her belly. A light stroking against her pussy; his slicked fingers. “I’ve been advised I’m to leave your bottom alone for today. So much hard use yesterday, you soft girl. Today you need soothing.”

He pushed her knees up tightly with one forearm and dipped his head once more, and Molly felt his tongue laving her tightest opening. She gave a small moan, blushing in spite of herself; would this act never fail to embarrass her, even as it made pleasure shiver up her spine?

But he was only circling her little hole, not prying past her tightness as he often did. His fingers, far too gentle on her pussy. More, she needed more!

“Sherlock, please, I’m begging you…”

“What do you need? Say it.” He was lifting his head to look at her; she felt the cold drops from his hair on her arse.

“More,” she said. “Need you to fuck me, hurt me, spank me, anything. This teasing…” Molly thought she might weep with frustration. She could come so easily, in a few moments, if he would just give her something. She strained against her bonds, drove her fingernails against her palms.

“Poor thing,” Sherlock said, his voice full of laughter again. “Do you want my cock, then?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “God yes, Sherlock.” Oh, for that sweet fullness inside---his weight as he’d push at her, demanding---

Sherlock was crawling up over her, sliding his warm skin against hers. Yes. Please.

“Are you my good girl, Molly?” he asked, his lips brushing her open mouth.

“Oh yes, I’m your good girl, sir…oh.”

There he was, entering her smoothly, slickly. But stopping before he filled her, hovering above her body. Oh, didn’t he want to drive inside her? He was always so merciless, but now, he was just resting there, his cock throbbing but maddeningly still. “Don’t move an inch, Molly,” he told her, stern.

“Sherlock.” She tried to put all her longing, all her abject wanting into her voice. She dared not lift her hips to push against him. “I’ll do anything.”

“Of course you will,” he said, and she heard his smile. “You told me so last night as well, if you recall. Anything, is it? Then tell me. Tell me one of your three filthy wishes.”

Molly felt her blush rising again. Oh, dear.

“Tell me, and I’ll fuck you. I’ll even let you come,” he said, pushing his way inside her a little more. “Just tell me.”

Behind the blindfold, Molly struggled to gather her wits. What had she decided on this morning? It seemed an age ago. What was the least embarrassing…?

“Out of doors,” she gasped out.

“Out of doors?” Sherlock repeated. “Is that all?”

“Yes, out of doors, where people…can see us,” Molly whispered, her ears growing hot---she could already see the scene behind her blindfold. Above her, Sherlock gave a quiet laugh.

“I should have known. Quiet Molly, so very shy, unassuming. Always dresses like a drab little bird so no one will notice her. But secretly, she wants people to watch her being stripped, chastised, taken. Wants everyone to see what she likes.”

His hands caught her under her knees, pulling her legs wide. Slowly, he drove his hips into her, inexorable, until Molly whimpered with the stretch, with the unfamiliar sensation of his crisp body hair pressed against her newly bare pussy.

“My little wanton,” he whispered, then thrust hard, making her moan with the sweet fulfillment of it. “My woman. All mine.”

“Your hot little whore,” she whispered back, using one of his rarer phrases, making him inhale sharply to hear the cruel word fall from her lips. “All yours. Use me, Sherlock.”

“Use you,” he said against her neck, settling into a driving rhythm that made her cry out. “Use you as you deserve.” His voice shook.

“Please let me come,” she begged, even as she felt his hand slipping down between their bodies, felt his thumb start to tug at her clit. “Sherlock, please. I’m aching.” But it was rising up in her, rising fast.

“Do you deserve to come?” A savage grin. She saw it in her mind’s eye. He would be watching her closely, those hard blue eyes glinting.

“No, I don’t,” she gasped as she bore his thrusting cock. “Deserve to suffer...”

“Too bad,” he growled. He never stopped working her sore little pearl. “You’re going to come, because I want to feel it. Come now.”

Molly gave a long, deep groan as the sweet pain in her blossomed, overflowed, shook her into trembling pieces. She cried her bliss aloud, wanting him to hear what he’d done to her, what a filthy girl she was to finally, finally take such pleasure.

“Naughty Molly,” Sherlock snarled, his voice tight with excitement. “Bad…little…oh.”

She heard Sherlock’s teeth snap together, felt him hunch over her and drive deep to spill, spill, spill inside her body. Molly pulled at her bonds, wishing she could hold him as he came. Instead, she twined her legs around his waist and pulled him close. She craned her head blindly after his mouth; he met her there in her darkness and kissed her fiercely. His heart was thunder against her breast.

For a long moment, they lay still. Sherlock gusted into her hair, and Molly tasted the skin of his throat, wet and salt. After a time, Sherlock reached up and pulled on the loop of rope he’d left, loosing her wrists. Molly brought her stiff arms down to cradle his damp, curly head.

“Love you,” he mumbled, sounding almost delirious, or drunk. “My Molly. I can’t ever...not have you. I’d be lost, I’d be---“

“Hush, Sherlock,” Molly said, perplexed. “I love you too, you know that. Don’t…Just rest for a minute.”

“Yes.” His head dropped heavily against her shoulder. “That sounds…good.”

He was sagging, clearly about to fall asleep. Sudden, but not unusual for him. Molly pushed at his shoulders until he rolled to one side, then onto his back where he grew still. A few moments later, Molly heard a light snore.

She smiled, wondering how much rest Sherlock had managed to get last night before getting up to roam the grounds. She lay quietly next to him for a few minutes, then abruptly remembered her blindfold.

Sitting up, she pulled off the piece of soft suede and looked around. She was in another vast room, dark and gilded, one that looked more like a drawing room but for their big white bed, which had been placed crookedly, incongruously, in the middle of everything. Afternoon sun was reflecting off the shining floor to land high on the ceiling, picking out the fine plaster molding in brightness and shadow. Ancient tapestries covered the walls, showing richly forested landscapes in dark golds and deep greens.

Molly sighed. She couldn’t imagine growing up in a place like this. Too grand to be really comfortable, especially for a child. Fondly, she thought of her mum’s cosy sitting room with its stained rug, and the old hob in the kitchen that needed to be lit with a match every time tea was wanted. Her own street, where the chimneys made trails of moss on the roofs of the neat brown houses and any passing lorry would rattle her bedroom window. But this ancient stone house…how could anyone call this home?

She looked back at Sherlock, who lay with one arm outflung against the white sheets, his lips slightly parted, deeply asleep. She thought of a boy with dark curls standing at that tall window, looking out on winter rain. What would that boy’s days have been like, all those years ago?

Turning away, Molly spied two cotton dressing gowns, folded side by side on the lower shelf of the little table beside the bed. One was smaller than the other, so she reached for that one. There were white bedroom slippers underneath, just her size.

Molly stood, then considered the folded flannel atop the table, and the small plug that lay there. She’d already grown used to the thing, and really, she had better follow the house rules to the letter. To be on the safe side. She used a bit of the lubricant, then reached behind her to slip the little thing into its place. She cleaned her hands with a wet wipe.

Last of all, Molly reached up to pull the diamonds out of her hair, for she was growing tired of the centre droplet’s trembling between her brows. No rule said she had to wear these constantly. Into the pocket of her dressing gown, then.

Belting the light garment with a sigh, Molly crept silently out of the room by the nearest door. She might as well explore a little while Sherlock slept.

She padded along the hall, looking into different rooms. More stiff furnishings, old wood, tall windows. The occasional small storage room or locked door. Reaching a large corner chamber, Molly walked inside to get a better view of the grounds outside. She pitied whomever had to mow that enormous expanse of lawn. But closer to, the gardens looked pleasant with their overflowing beds of old-fashioned flowers. As they ought, for the sake of all the weddings and parties held here at Ashmere House.

How odd to rent out one’s home to strangers most of the year, piecemeal. But needs must, Molly knew. No matter how rich the Holmes family was or wasn’t, keeping their listed pile in good nick was bound to be expensive to the point of ruination. “It’s rentals, or giving up the house,” she murmured against the wavy old glass. Abruptly, Molly wondered whether Sherlock and Mycroft would bother with Ashmere when it came time for them to inherit. The National Trust would surely take the estate off the brothers’ hands at a moment’s notice, if they offered it.

Turning away from the window, Molly found herself confronted with a large painting on the opposite wall. She walked over to take a closer look.

A grand old dame looked severely down at Molly, wearing a vast blue dress in some antique style. Her grey hair was dressed high above her long visage, and Molly fancied she could see something of Sherlock around those cold blue eyes, though she saw more of Mycroft in the rest of the dour face. Her skinny fingers glittered with jewels, and about her neck---

Molly drew in a breath and slipped her hand into the pocket of the dressing gown. She touched the chill stones wonderingly, for under her fingers lay the same diamonds that graced the long neck of the dowager in the portrait.

“Wow,” she whispered to the still air. Carefully, she backed away from the old lady, who now seemed to regard Molly with a mien of accusation. She walked on, now paying more attention to the paintings and other objects in the rooms she passed.

Two rooms down, Molly discovered a photograph. Two photos, actually, in a folding frame that stood on a side table. Pasteboard ovals encircled the images, which had the red-faded quality of snapshots Molly remembered from her own childhood. On the left, a gangly ginger-haired boy sat formally before a patterned background and looked off-camera, his mouth ironic. Mycroft, without a doubt.

But on the right, a very small boy with a mop of black curls and a pair of sparkling blue eyes gazed upward. He must have been shown something amusing, because the damp little mouth was laughing and the pudgy fingers were plucking excitedly at the shag-carpeted ledge he’d been leaned against. The child had been lovingly dressed in a blue snowflake-patterned jumper which, Molly saw as she looked closer, was slightly bedewed with drool.

Molly laughed aloud in delight, cradling the frame. Little Sherlock, almost a baby. Hard to believe this small boy had grown into her tall, forbidding lover, who stalked unsmiling through the streets of London, who stole human remains from her morgue to experiment on. The same man who had killed for her sake, who savoured both her pain and her ecstasy, had once been this tiny, laughing creature with shining eyes. Molly’s heart gave an almost painful squeeze. She loved him so. Her Sherlock.

After a long moment, Molly sighed and set the frame down again. Seeing that photo had reawakened a longing in her, something so secret and tender she hardly dared think about it. Instead, she took a breath, squared her shoulders. “Best to remember what’s possible, Molly,” she said quietly, and left the room.

She’d go down the stairs next, explore the ground floor. Perhaps she’d recognise the fireplace room from last night.

Her hand on the railing, Molly stopped short as a woman she didn’t know moved toward her. She was of middle height, dark-haired, and dressed in the smart black of the staff Molly had already met. The woman stopped before Molly and, rather abruptly, asked, “Where are the diamonds?”

“What?” Molly replied, taken aback. “I have them. Here.” She patted the pocket of her dressing gown.

“If they’re not on your head, then they ought to be in the safe,” the woman retorted, looking Molly up and down.

Molly drew herself up. “Pardon, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said stiffly. The woman looked aside.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be like that. I was just worried. Must dash, lots to do downstairs,” the woman said, walking quickly back the way she had come. Molly opened and closed her mouth, but before she could formulate a reply, the woman had turned a corner and vanished.

Molly gave a huff, but after a moment, she shrugged. Well, Sherlock had mentioned offhand that almost none of his special staff were professional servants, that he’d selected instead for trustworthiness and acceptance of their activities, and Molly had approved. And if some of those people turned out to have social skills that could be best described as interesting, well, perhaps that was to be expected. Sherlock had chosen them, after all.

Molly moved down the stairs, trailing her fingers down a railing smoothed by centuries of polish. She padded across the wide atrium, glancing up at portraits of vaguely smiling women and severe men, all muddied with age. She wandered through more tall rooms, looked at more paintings, but found no more photographs of the Holmes men she knew.

She did discover the library, where a heavy safe stood open on the floor. But Molly was more interested in the shelves of books, and was disappointed to find that most of them were locked behind wire screens. Ah, well. She supposed such precautions made sense in a house that was rented to the public.

As she stepped out of the library, she smelled something tantalising. Her stomach gave a grumble. Thinking of the delicious scones she’d had for her breakfast, Molly looked carefully around. From behind a white door, she heard a faint clatter and a murmur of voices.

Opening the door, Molly moved down a short staircase. Yes, this was where the delectable odour was coming from. In a moment, she found herself at the entrance to a large kitchen, where two women were working at a wooden table. “Um. Hello,” Molly said softly, and smiled. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

One of the women looked up and smiled back. “Ah! You must be Molly. I’m Sara, the cook, and this is Meredith. Come right in and sit down.” She patted the back of a chair with a floury hand, and hesitantly, Molly sat, looking around at the cheery, old-fashioned kitchen with its high-set windows and bright copper pans.

“Are you hungry?” the other woman asked pleasantly. “We’ve got a lovely supper planned for the house, but I can knock you up a bacon buttie if you like.”

“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful,” Molly said, feeling a little awkward. Would the kitchen staff be aware of what kind of holiday she was on with Sherlock?

But the ladies said nothing about it, chatting about the dinner instead. “Salmon and sautéed courgettes tonight. Plus hot rolls and a bit of salad,” Sara told her. “And chips. He said he wanted chips.”

“You mean His Nibs?” Molly heard behind her. She turned, her mouth full of bacon, and there was Bridget with a bundle of fashion magazines under her arm and a wide sun hat on her head. She smiled at Molly as she pulled out her own chair. “Sherlock eats too many chips. Oh, well. Meredith, darling, is the kettle on by chance? I could murder a cuppa.”

“Sure thing, doll,” Meredith said, and grabbed another mug to set beside Molly’s.

“Meredith’s my partner,” Bridget said to Molly with an air of pride. “Seven years on and she hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Only because you’re too cute to strangle, Bridge,” Meredith said with a grin, waving her paring knife.

“And Molly knows all about that, don’t you?” Bridget said, and all the women laughed. Molly sipped her tea and smiled, happy to find herself in such casual company. This room was much more her style than anything she’d found above. It occurred to her to ask after the dark-haired woman, but she rather lost her train of thought when Bridget, too knowingly, passed her a cushion to sit on.

Two mugs of tea later, Sherlock wandered in, fastening his cuff button. “Oh, here you are, Molly,” he said, stroking her cheek with a cool finger before moving to peer out a high window.

“Any lunch, Sherlock?” Sara asked, but Sherlock dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand.

“I thought I’d take you around the house,” he said to Molly, turning. “You poked about a bit, I saw. But I rather doubt you found the stairs up to the roof.”

“No, I didn’t,” Molly said. “Um, I’d love to see. And the grounds?”

“If you like,” he replied, and held out an expectant hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Sara and Meredith,” she said. “Thank you for the nosh. See you later, Bridget.”

“’Bye, love. Be gentle with him,” Bridget said with a smile, and Molly grinned back.

The rest of the afternoon passed rather slowly. Sherlock took her from room to room, pointing out some of the portraits she’d noticed earlier but giving only sketchy information in the vein of “My great-aunt, probably; she might have been French.” His movements were restless, and he became quieter and more distracted as they moved through the house. Soon it became clear to Molly: Sherlock was growing bored.

Strange things tended to happen when Sherlock got bored. And they had several more days to spend here, away from London, with no prospect of the work he thrived upon. She hoped he wouldn’t grow petulant; if he did, she’d have to remind him whose idea this had been. She shivered when it occurred to her that he might choose to take his boredom out on her. A thrilling prospect, or a terrifying one.

They’d just returned from the roof, where Molly had wanted to spend too much time enjoying the view for Sherlock’s taste, when in the hall they crossed paths with Janet. She frowned when she saw Molly.

“Sherlock, where are the diamonds?” Janet asked, an edge in her voice.

“Oh. I’ve no idea,” Sherlock drawled. “They might have fallen off in the bed, I suppose.” He waved a long hand vaguely back toward the green-and-gold room.

“No, I have them here,” Molly said, and pulled them out of her pocket to show Janet.

“Oh, thank god,” Janet muttered. “Well done, Molly. But Sherlock, if you insist on treating your family’s diamonds as toys, you must be more careful with them. Don’t just leave them lying about.”

“Molly was looking after them. They’re hardly ‘lying about,’” Sherlock snapped. But Janet held her ground.

“I’ll just take them to the safe now,” she said. She held out her hand to Molly, but looked at Sherlock.

“Fine. Whatever you like.” Sherlock turned down the hall as Molly handed over the sparkling gems.

To her surprise, Janet gave her a rueful smile as Sherlock disappeared into a doorway. “You’re a saint, you know,” she said lowly.

“I know,” Molly said, and smiled back. Perhaps Janet wasn’t so bad after all, she thought, watching the other woman as she marched purposefully away, no doubt heading for the library and the safe.

Sure enough, the safe was closed when Sherlock led Molly into the library some time later. “Funny thing,” Molly ventured as Sherlock walked past the safe to bring down his violin case from a high shelf. “Janet wasn’t the first person to ask me about the diamonds today.”

“Yes, yes. All the staff have been instructed to watch after them,” Sherlock replied, plucking the strings carefully. “I can’t be bothered, as you’ve seen. I’m sure you’re aware that diamonds are intrinsically worthless?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Not exactly rare, either. Useful for industrial applications, but otherwise all they really do is sparkle.”

“Diamonds, yes. One of the great true conspiracies of our time. Take off your dressing gown and lie down on the sofa, you rich, rare thing. You’re to be my muse this afternoon.” He gestured idly with his bow.

When she’d obeyed him, arranging her bare self on the antique leader settee, Sherlock began to play. He wrenched a wistful beauty from his violin as he watched her narrowly, his face grave. He continued to play for an uncountable time, and Molly, for her part, watched him watching her, and smiled to herself.

The room had grown golden with sunset when Sherlock finally lowered his bow. They shared a moment of silence before Sherlock started toward her, eyes dark with purpose.

But then a gong sounded, echoing in through the open door. “Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock said, bridling. “Where on earth did they find a gong? Clearly they’re enjoying the game a bit too much.”

“Perhaps they’re just getting into the spirit of things. I take it dinner is served?” Molly asked, smiling wryly at his frustration as she got to her feet. Let him be the one to wait for a change.

“No stopping it, apparently. All right. Let’s ‘go through,’ as they used to say.”

“No, that’s not right. They ‘go through’ after eating, not before. I saw it on Downton Abbey,” Molly said loftily, just to torment him. Obligingly, Sherlock groaned.

&&&&&&

Dinner was delicious, eaten off trays in front of a low fire, where they sat cross-legged on big cushions. Sherlock had found a deck of cards somewhere, and they amused themselves between bites by tossing the cards into a Chinese vase. Molly often found herself laughing too hard to be able to eat, especially when Sherlock began to pitch his cards over his shoulder or while standing on his head.

“Showoff,” she teased him over her second glass of wine. “If you don’t eat the rest of your pudding, I will.”

“If I miss this next toss, you’re welcome to it,” Sherlock said, and flipped the card carelessly without looking. The card sailed through the air and landed flat on the lip of the vase. Sherlock turned to look in disbelief.

“That counts as a miss,” Molly said, and reached for his dessert cup. Sherlock laughed, and let her.

“Ready to go to bed?” Sherlock asked after a few moments, his face in shadow.

Molly took her time with her last mouthful of berries and custard. “I’m not sleepy,” she told him, taking a final sip of the wine.

“Not a problem. I’ve no intention of sleeping,” said Sherlock, getting to his feet and holding out a hand. “As you’re well aware.”

“The washing up?” Molly arose, swayed against him.

“It’ll be taken care of. For you, I have a much more difficult task.” He towed her out of the room, into the atrium, and up the stairway once more.

The green-and-gold room was sunken in darkness now that the sun was well down. In the centre, the great white bed stood askew as before, lit by a flickering candelabra. But now her sheepskin was on the floor beside it, and a long coil of rope lay ready.

“Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight, Molly?” Sherlock asked her tenderly as he drew off her dressing gown. “Lie cradled in my arms, stay with me until morning?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Molly whispered. “Of course I would.” His bed, was it? Not theirs?

“Kneel on your sheepskin,” he told her. “Hands to the side of the bed for balance.”

Sherlock himself knelt behind her; Molly could hear the swooshing sounds as he ran his rope through his hands. In a moment he was lifting one of her ankles away from the ground and looping rope around it in a long cuff. But he didn’t tie her other ankle as she expected; when she glanced back at him, his long fingers were busily lacing the rest of the rope into several yards of looping chain. As she watched, he secured the ends to the leg of the bed, jerking the complex knot very tight. He gave her an evil smile.

“This, then, is your challenge. Convince me.” He began to undo his shirt buttons.

“What?” she whispered, looking between him and the strange bondage that didn’t restrain her in any way, except, crucially, to the heavy bedstead.

“Convince me to let you sleep in my bed.” Sherlock drew off his clothes swiftly, leaving them folded on a chair. “Or, if you prefer, you can kip right there on your sheepskin. I’ll even toss down a pillow and blanket. It should be quite comfortable.” Naked, he climbed onto the bed, grinning at Molly’s silent outrage.

A long moment passed. The candles danced and Sherlock lounged, the arrogant bastard, leaning his head on one hand.

Convince him, was it. Maybe she’d call his bluff, and just lie down here on the plush wool. He’d miss her closeness as surely as she’d miss his. Or, perhaps, she could have a little fun with this, challenge him in return. Yes.

Molly knelt quietly, demurely. She looked up at him, letting an expectant smile blossom over her face. She did nothing else, and Sherlock blinked. Molly waited.

Finally, Sherlock huffed and lay down, evidently giving up. It was Molly’s moment to speak.

“Will you never call for me, my prince?” She spoke softly, as if heartbroken.

Sherlock craned his head back toward her and gave her the strangest look, as if she were a clue he could not yet understand. After a second, she read suspicion on his face. Was she mocking him?

Well, perhaps she was, a little. But she pressed on. Time, now, to see if he cared to play her game.

“You’ve kidnapped me from my own kingdom, brought me here to your castle. Stripped me bare and tied me to your bed as your pet. But, my prince, still you do not touch me. For three long nights, nothing.”

Still Sherlock was silent, and Molly reached up and began to unpin her hair. She let the pins tinkle, one by one, onto the hard floor. She loosened her plaits, setting her long locks free to spill down her back. She watched Sherlock take a heavy breath, and smiled inwardly. She well knew how he loved her hair.

“My prince,” she said, letting the waves flow over one shoulder, “Think of my father the king. Surely he sorrows for me; surely he awaits your demand for ransom, even knowing that in the minds of all, I am soiled. Why, then, do you not do the deed which all believe you have committed? Why did you capture me, only to leave me virgin?” She let her voice break in a sob on that last word. Her heart beat fast. How would he react?

Finally, Sherlock spoke, hesitant. “You could untie that rope whenever you wish, you know, given time. It’s only a rope. Princess.”

Her heart leapt. He was not laughing at her; he was playing along, or trying to. “Perhaps I do not free myself, my prince, because I am not unwilling to be captive.” Molly got to her feet and shook back her hair, letting the candlelight play over her naked skin. “Am I not comely?”

“Comelier than summer’s rose. But I am an honourable man,” Sherlock said, a bit more confident now. “I do not…do that. To my captives.”

“Not even if they beg you?” Molly asked. She moved up onto the bed, crawled toward him, the rope trailing loose behind her. “Please touch me, my prince. You must know I’ve longed for you…for a long time.”

“Since we were children,” Sherlock murmured as her small hands ghosted down his chest.

“Yes,” Molly replied. “War need not divide our two kingdoms.”

“Beautiful princess,” Sherlock bit out. “Your passion inflames my blood.”

Molly drew down the duvet. “So…so I see.” His cock was as hard and ready as she’d ever seen it, and as she looked into his face, she saw that he was panting, his eyes glittering. He longed to pounce on her. He would, if she gave him any sign.

“Wait,” she said, holding out a hand. Then she affected a maidenly blush, touching her fingers to her cheeks. “My prince, you…you frighten me. Your...your body. And yet somehow I want you more than ever.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “Climb atop me, princess. I will guide you.”

Slowly, as if timid, Molly drew one leg over his body to kneel above him. “Is this right?”

“Hold my hand,” he said, and clasped hers tight. With the other hand, he reached down to position himself. “Princess. Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. I’ve dreamed of this, my prince. Wanted you so badly.”

Slowly, she sank down onto the length of him, sheathing his cock in her body. She held herself tense, and as she took all of him, a little moan passed her lips. She touched her belly. “Oh. So full.”

“Molly. Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Or I’m going to come,” Sherlock said thickly, his eyes squeezed tight. Overawed, Molly gazed down at him as he fought for control. He liked her game, then. Liked it quite a lot.

After long moments, Sherlock relaxed. “Now I’ll touch you, princess. Bring you pleasure.” He pressed one hand to her hip, bidding her remember to be still, and with his other he traced soft circles around her clit. Molly sighed.

“Harder, Sherlock. My prince.”

“Pinch your breasts for me, girl. Yes, lovely.” Sherlock sat up suddenly and settled Molly on his lap, pressing her lower back so she’d grind her clit against him. His mouth sought her nipples then, sucking and nipping, while his other hand gathered her hair.

“Delicious little princess. I should have kidnapped you years ago.” He tugged at her scalp, exposing her neck.

“Yes, you should. Oh, you feel so good inside,” she gasped as he scraped his teeth against her throat. Releasing her hair, he slid cool fingertips down her spine.

“What’s this? Little wanton.” He tugged gently at her small plug, and it came easily free. He set it aside and wet a finger in his mouth. “Like something in your bottom, do you?”

“Oh,” Molly cried, as Sherlock slipped the finger up her bum. “Sher…my prince…I’m going to…”

Sherlock set his teeth and braced his other hand behind him, finally allowing himself to thrust up into her body. Molly tilted back her head and moaned out her pleasure as it coursed through her, and Sherlock followed a moment later with a cry almost of pain. He collapsed back onto the pillows, and Molly sank down over him as they rode out the last of their climax together.

Sherlock kissed her fiercely, then began to laugh. “Oh, Molly. That was…”

“A little role-play,” Molly said, grinning down at him. “And you liked it.”

“Evidently I did. Once I understood what the hell was going on. Well, you always surprise me.”

“I do?” Molly swept her hair to one side, feeling almost as shy, now, as she’d pretended earlier.

“Oh, yes. I thought I’d get some little show from you, maybe even a naughty dance. But this…” He gathered her in. “Novel.”

“So may I sleep in your bed tonight, after all?” Molly teased.

“Oh, forever,” he said, then stopped, turning his face away. He sat up, leaning past her to untie her ankle. “But let’s sleep. Blow out the candles now, Molly.”

“Yes, my prince,” Molly said, and did as he bade her.

&&&&&

Later, much later, in the darkest part of the night, Molly started awake. She was gasping for breath, and her heart was racing. What, what had happened?

“No. I don’t believe it,” Sherlock said behind her, then vaulted neatly over her body to land on the floor. He snatched up his dressing gown and bounded out of the room.

“Sherlock?” Molly called after him, but there was no answer. She climbed hastily out of bed and reached for her own dressing gown, her heart still pounding, and followed him out the door.

Below her, she saw that Sherlock had raced down the stairs and was making for the library. The house was awakening; sleepy faces were peering out of rooms on both floors.

“What was that noise? Sounded like a gunshot,” she heard Bridget saying.

It took only a moment for Molly to race down the stairs and reach the door of the library, just in time to hear Sherlock’s roar of anger.

“Damn! Damn it all! Molly, wait. Guard this door for me,” he said to her, his eyes wild. Behind him, Molly saw a blue haze of smoke hanging in the air, smelt an acrid tang, but saw no body on the floor. The room seemed deserted. 

“Let no one into the library,” Sherlock was saying. “The jewels are gone.”

He pushed past her then, ignoring her gasp, and made for the front door. Molly wrung shaking hands and called after him as the atrium began to fill with sleepy staff. “Hadn’t we ought to call the police, Sherlock?”

“No,” he called back. “Absolutely not. No police. Why bother with those clods when I’m already on the scene?” He stopped for a moment, grinned back at her wolfishly. “There’s a thief at Ashmere House tonight. The game is on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas...my Britpicker...You make it all possible! Thank you so kindly!


	4. Edith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting so many months for the return of this fic! Baby is born and well (and currently sleeping!) and I'm back in the saddle.  
> This chapter contains a little treat for the curious and diligent...a breadcrumb, if you will...  
> Do enjoy!

“Sherlock!” Bridget called across the increasingly crowded entry hall, awash with grey predawn light. “What was that noise? Was it a gunshot?” 

“A blank.” Sherlock reappeared, having checked the front door for signs of the diamond thief’s egress. “And it was my gun, set up inside the safe as a trap. Idea from an old friend. Nobody’s dead, by the way,” he said drily, addressing the room at large. “No need to look for trails of blood.“

“Well, as long as we’re here,” said Sara the cook with forced cheerfulness, “perhaps I ought to put the kettle---“

“No,” Sherlock snapped, striding toward the back door now. “No one leaves this room until I’ve checked every entry and secured the scene. Molly, see to it. And let no one into the library.” 

Molly stared at his retreating back. “Um,” she said. Her heart was just beginning to slow. With the possible exception of Molly herself, since she’d been sleeping in Sherlock’s arms, it seemed that everyone in the house was now a suspected jewel thief. Bit awkward, this.

“Should we call the police, then?” someone asked. 

“He doesn’t want to,” Molly replied, privately of the opinion that yes, of course they should. But even if the police did show up, Sherlock would never unlock the gates for them, would he. “Ah, is everyone here?”

The staff gathered in a ragged semicircle, bleary-eyed in their pajamas and dressing gowns and, in Bridget’s case, a headful of comically large curlers. Molly turned to the group, a bit bashful to have been put in charge, and belatedly realising that she had no idea how many people Sherlock had hired. But as she looked from each face to the next, she saw that one person, at least, was missing…

“Pardon,” she began after a slight cough. “Is there a woman on staff who’s between twenty-five and thirty-five, white, with brown hair, medium height and build? She spoke to me in the upper hall yesterday, but I don’t see her here.” 

“Anything else you can say about her?” Meredith the kitchen helper asked, knuckling her eyes. “Only that describes about five of us, including me.” 

Molly found herself coming up short. “I…I don’t remember anything else, really. She was just kind of…middling. She did ask me about the diamonds…” 

Sherlock was behind her, tightening up his dressing gown. “Molly. Who asked you about the diamonds?” 

Molly told Sherlock about the woman who’d accosted her the day before. He frowned. “You’re sure there’s nothing else distinctive about her?”

Molly feverishly racked her brain for something, anything more she could give him, but her memory wasn’t exactly cooperating. She huffed in frustration. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Molly,” Sherlock told her offhandedly, bowing his head over his steepled fingers. “The average human memory is egregiously unreliable.”

Average, is it? Molly crossed her arms and fumed as Sherlock looked over the crowd of people, his lips moving silently. His eyes narrowed, and only Molly was close enough to hear him mutter something that sounded like “Edith.”

Molly looked at him, about to ask what he meant, but he was calling directions to the staff. “Would you all just line up for me. Quickly, please. George,” he said to the young man on the end, “show me your hands.”

He took quite a bit of time going down the line, staring at each staff member in turn, and Molly found that her own heart was pounding in sympathy with the scared faces before her. Stolen diamonds---worth a fortune, despite Sherlock’s assertion last night that diamonds were, from his point of view, utterly worthless. Well, it seemed they were worth something after all, judging by the look on his face. Something about his expression made Molly recall the stony visage of the woman in the painting she’d found, and the chilly glint of the diamond necklace around her painted neck; suddenly, the woman’s gaze took on a distinctly suspicious air in her mind. Molly shivered. 

Sherlock was clearly becoming more and more frustrated as the grey light from the tall windows grew paler. As he turned away from the last staff person, Molly heard him curse under his breath.

“Well,” he said finally, annoyance practically sparking off him. “That will do for now. Sara,” he said, rounding on the cook. 

“Sh-sherlock?” the woman squeaked, clutching her chest, her eyes widening with sudden alarm. 

“We’ll have that tea now.” 

The cook sagged with relief, and Molly sent Sherlock a sharp look. 

“Ah. Sorry.” He bridled, then turned to the group. “Ah, I’m…grateful for your cooperation, I suppose.” He glanced at Molly as if for assurance; she gave a defeated shrug. It would have to do. Sherlock frowned. “Now you can all go back to bed. Please.”

Privately Molly doubted that anyone in the house would be able to sleep, but Sherlock didn’t stay to watch them disperse. He gripped Molly’s wrist and drew her inexorably up the stairs again to their room. 

Releasing her, Sherlock closed the door and leaned against the elaborate mantelpiece. He looked at the floor, his face almost as white as his dressing gown.

Molly waited. She watched his eyes darting under his closed lids, the jerk of his chin as his mind compiled, sorted, and analysed information. Drawing parallels, testing associations. Not for the first time, Molly wondered what form Sherlock’s mind palace took, what familiar building he used as a mental repository and proving ground. Surely this house was too small to serve---?

A tentative knock on the door, and Sara entered with a tray of tea things. She glanced apprehensively at Sherlock. 

“He’s just…thinking,” Molly told Sara, discomfited on her behalf; Sherlock did look very odd. “Er, actively.”

“Damn,” Sherlock shouted, and sprang across the room to the window. Poor Sara fled as he jerked open the curtains one set after the other, flooding the bedroom with dawn light. 

Molly joined him. “Oh, Sherlock. Sara didn’t deserve that.”

“Deserve what?” Sherlock said absently, opening one of the casements and looking at the sunlight touching the dewy grass. “Irrelevant. Look down there, Molly, it’s just as I thought.” He gave a firm nod. “I spent too much time in the entry hall. The thief has already left the house, likely before we even made it downstairs.”

Sherlock pushed away from the window and crossed to the door. Molly leaned briefly out into the chill air and saw faint footprints in the grass below, no more than patches of finer dewdrops. The prints led away from the house toward the line of trees.

Sherlock left the room, and after a moment, Molly followed. Sure enough, she found him in the chamber directly below, examining the window the thief must have used. 

“It’s been opened. Someone passed through,” he announced grimly, and bent to inspect a small plastic box tucked discreetly inside the window frame. “And look---someone disabled the security system here. This is no casual theft of opportunity.” He straightened. “But then---why be so careless as to leave footprints in the dew?” He raced past Molly into the hall and up the stairs again.

“Sherlock,” Molly called after him, puffing a little as she climbed the stairs. “Slow down.”

But he had disappeared. By the time Molly realised where he must have gone, Sherlock was emerging from the small room with the owl wallpaper, doing up his shirt buttons.

“Going to walk the grounds, back soon,” he said as he passed her. “Eat and take a bath. Wait.” Abruptly he turned back and caught her waist, his eyes grown dark as he studied her for a long moment. “Molly.” His voice held a warning, and she froze, strangely a bit afraid now. Surely he couldn’t suspect her---?

“Are you wearing your plug?” His voice was low and dangerous. 

“N-no,” she admitted. Oh, god. “But Sherlock, we weren’t even meant to be awake---“

“Disobedient,” he cut in, smiling, an unmistakable gleam in his eye. “I’ll deal with you later.” He released her, leaving her swaying and blushing, and dashed downstairs and out the front door. 

***

Two hours later, Sherlock appeared in Molly’s bedroom, carrying a long coil of smooth rope over one shoulder. 

Bridget had been chattering away about the incidents of the morning, managing to be cheerful in spite of everything as she curled Molly’s loose hair into gorgeous, bouncing spiral waves. But when Sherlock entered, Bridget looked up at his face, gave a slight “Ooh,” and began to gather her things. 

Even after the door closed behind the stylist, Sherlock didn’t say a word. He leaned against the wall by the door, arms folded, looking down at Molly where she sat in her dressing gown before the mirrored vanity. She showed him a nervous little smile, her eyes flicking to the rope, but he didn’t react. He seemed to be waiting for something. 

Unable to bear the tension, Molly stood and drew off her dressing gown, then sank naked to the floor. On her knees now, she bent forward in an exaggerated pose of humility, lowering her head onto folded hands and finally presenting her nape to him. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said to the soft rug. “How will I be punished?” 

The question hung in the air, and Molly began to worry in earnest. Was she really in trouble? What might Sherlock devise?

“Naughty girl,” she heard above her. Footsteps on the rug to her left; behind her now. Oh, dear. She’d left herself rather vulnerable from the rear---

A smack landed on her arse, lingered as his hand gripped her stinging flesh. Molly gave a shuddering breath as his hot fingers trailed downward. A leisurely touch slithered up from her clit to her plug, now nestled in its place. 

“Naughty, but trying for penitence. Hmm. Up, Molly.”

She rose carefully, and Sherlock directed her out the door and down the stairs. Oh, there were staff people walking around below, taking little notice of her walking past without a stitch on, cheeks blazing. Being directed by her lover’s touch on her shoulder, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. That notion struck her as exciting, somehow.

“Here, Molly. Dining room.” 

They were back in the room with the long table, though the great wing chair where Sherlock had lounged had been moved aside. Now he conducted Molly to the head of the table and bent her over it with a gentle hand on her neck. She was sweating a little; her breasts and belly stuck to the cool wood. Swishing sounds arose behind her: Sherlock was performing his ritual of drawing his rope through his hands. 

“Now, my girl,” Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. “What shall I do with you? Defying house rules right under my nose. Tsk, tsk. Though there are certain mitigating factors, both in your favour and…not.

“On the one hand,” he said, striking her bottom suddenly so that Molly yelped, “it was a first offence, the hour was early, gunshot, et cetera. On the other…” His hand gripped her chin, turned her face sideways toward the cold fire of his eyes. “I’ve just had to make a phone call to my dear brother. One that I really hated---and I do mean hated---to make.” 

He released her face and disappeared behind her again. “One doesn’t dawdle to call out the cavalry when heirlooms have gone missing. No. But I do admit the necessity has left me in a decidedly _foul_ humour. And since I did bring the diamonds here for your sake, my dear Molly, by my calculations the blame devolves on you.”

“Skull,” Molly gasped. 

Sherlock was at her side in an instant. “Tell me, Molly. What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t---I really don’t want you to say that the diamonds are my fault. Not even in play. Please.” She looked up at the concern, the incomprehension, on his face. “It’s frightening, Sherlock. They’re worth so much, and, and they belong to your family. What if---what if Mycroft blames me?” Molly felt her mouth begin to tremble.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, then frowned. Gently he pulled her up off the table and into his arms. “Why would he blame you? I’m the one who got them out of the safety deposit box.” 

“But he must have asked you.” Molly pressed her face into his shirt, breathed in the clean male scent of him. “Why you got them out, what you were doing with them…”

“He can ask. I don’t need to answer.”

“Mycroft and I don’t exactly get on, you know, after what happened…this winter.” Molly would never forgive Mycroft for knowingly sending his brother off to die. “And he knows, Sherlock.” Molly turned down her mouth in disgust. “He knows what we get up to, you and me.”

“He’s known about my proclivities for decades. Oh, but why would it matter?” Sherlock cried. “The diamonds are my responsibility. You weren’t the one who was acting careless with them yesterday. I was. But I don’t care what Mycroft thinks, so why should you?” 

“Well, he could make my life…very difficult, Sherlock. If he wanted.” He could reopen the hospital board’s inquiry into the paperwork she’d falsified after Sherlock’s death, for one…or the matter of the assassin she’d managed to kill in self-defence. She shivered.

“If he tried anything, the word ‘difficult’ would not begin to describe the consequences. I’d see to that, and he knows it. Molly, don’t worry. Truly.”

Molly pressed her lips together, wanting terribly to bring up what Sherlock’s lovely mum might say, but not quite daring. How could Molly tell Sherlock that his family’s good opinion mattered to her? With that particular bit of information, what might he deduce about her heart?

Careful, Molly. Best leave that be. “All right,” she said. “But please don’t say it’s my fault.”

“I won’t. Promise.” He held her away from him, looked into her face. “Are you well? Do you want to keep playing?”

“Yes.” She gave him a brave smile. It would be good to play. Take her mind off things. 

His eyes grew dark once more. “Then get down where you belong.” He pushed her over the table again, and in a moment Molly felt nimble fingers at one wrist, lacing an intricate cuff that lay gently over the fine bones there.

Then her other wrist was bound, and Sherlock tied both her arms outstretched, securing her well to a table leg on each side. 

“This table seats twenty people, and it’s solid oak. You’re not going anywhere, Miss Hooper.” Sherlock’s voice held cold amusement. “Now, let me see. I have a lovely, helpless, pliant canvas laid out before me, and plenty of rope. In light of activities to come, I think I’ll make you a hip harness.” 

He looped a double strand of rope around her hips, tied it off below her navel, and looped more ropes around the tops of her thighs. Now he was squirming a finger up under the rope on one thigh and hooking the finger to pull a loop down, through which he passed another strand, and on and on…surely creating an intricate weave that would grow tighter and tighter as he progressed. She wished she could see what he was doing, but at least he wasn’t pulling rope tightly up between her legs to torment her pussy. Yet. 

No, she realised as Sherlock finished off his last tie. That wouldn’t be her fate this time, but still Molly couldn’t guess what devilry he had in mind. But when he took hold of a hank of rope he’d left at her tailbone and hoisted her pelvis experimentally, she yelped.

“Very nice,” Sherlock said beside her as Molly strained on tiptoe, her bottom high in the air. “I’ll just hold you up with one hand, then, and with the other---“ 

He landed a heavy spank on her arse, and another, and another, holding her harness so she couldn’t flinch away. Oh, this was going to be one of his hard spankings, wasn’t it! And she was still wearing her plug, so the heavy little piece of steel shifted inside her arse with every blow. 

“Sherlock, please!” What with the slight strain in her arms, the controlling embrace of the harness, the movements of the plug, and the volley of stinging slaps, Molly’s senses were quickly reaching the point of overload. And he’d only just begun. She screwed her eyes shut.

“Please what, Molly?” he answered lazily, and gave her another wallop. 

“Please, I’ll be good---“

“Oh, I know you intend to obey your master, darling girl.” Sherlock’s hand must be afire by now, but he gave no sign, continuing her spanking with evident relish. “The problem lies in the fact that you are forgetful…you allow yourself to become distracted. Then you disobey. So, you’re punished.”

“I won’t forget again,” Molly sobbed, twisting her hips miserably as his rope dug into her flesh. “Please believe me. Oh, it hurts. Oh!” 

“I know it hurts,” Sherlock purred. “But look how wet it’s made you. Bad thing.” 

It was true. He’d conditioned her far too well. 

His hot fingers trailed sweetly up her pussy again, toying with her plug briefly before landing another vicious spank. Molly groaned aloud. 

“Sherlock, please. I’ll do anything. Please forgive me. I want you…I need you to fuck me…”

“Ah, thank you. Just there will be fine,” Sherlock said lightly, his head turned away. Molly’s eyes blinked open, and her cheek glowed hot against the dining table as she saw Janet, not five feet away from them, carefully placing a vase of garden flowers on the sideboard. 

“Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, looking down at Molly with a knowing smile on her foxy face. 

Molly struggled not to turn her face away. 

“Oh, I think the room could---unh!---use a bit of dusting,” Sherlock said archly, never stopping Molly’s spanking. “Don’t you?” 

“Right away, Mr. Holmes. George, stop staring, you daft boy. Come and lend a hand.” 

Molly wondered fleetingly if it was possible to faint from embarrassment and arousal. There she was, tied down and being soundly spanked, unable to keep herself from moaning aloud, while Janet and the handsome George moved nonchalantly about the room, _dusting._ Dizzied with the strangeness of it, Molly didn’t even notice Sherlock had stopped her spanking until he spoke into her ear.

“Filthy girl,” Sherlock said, his hand now resting quietly on what was surely a very red bottom. “I rather think you enjoyed being punished here, in front of anyone who might walk past the doors behind us.” His fingers slid down, gently parted the lips of her wet, wanting pussy. “Here where anyone can see what it’s done to you.” 

Molly couldn’t speak. She thought about her safeword, formed the shape of it in her mind. But after a moment of hesitation, some part of her realised that truly wanting to say it and feeling as though she _should_ want to say it were two different things. She’d never quite comprehended that before now.

“Now for your true punishment.” Before Molly could do more than blink in alarm, Sherlock was pulling gently on her little plug, setting it aside when it came free. She heard the crack of a lubricant bottle, and then, shockingly between her burning buttocks, the chilly touch of steel.

“Oh, oh, Sherlock. Oh, god.” The cold, the pressure. Must he always make her take the big plug when people were watching?

“Relax, my love. You’re doing well.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with lust. “Almost…there.”

The plug seated itself, and Molly moaned with relief, thinking her ordeal was at an end. Then she heard the sound of Sherlock’s zip. 

He slid inside her without preamble, so suddenly that Molly cried out. Sherlock’s substantial size filled her tightly at the best of times, but now, with the large plug in place and his body pressing it deeper, the fullness in her pelvis became an ache. Mercifully, Sherlock didn’t move at first. Oh, the cold of the plug, the heat of his cock…Molly let out a deep moan.

His hand swept her hair aside, touched her cheek as Molly panted against the wood. “Now then, my own. You don’t mind if I use you here in front of everyone, do you?”

Molly’s gaze flickered across the room, where Janet and George were still dusting. George was even looking casually over at them every few seconds as he worked through the bric-a-brac on a side table. The twisted _normality_ of it all…In confusion, Molly lifted her eyes to a portrait mounted above the sideboard. Even the bewigged gentleman---and wasn’t that Sherlock’s lush mouth?---was staring down at her, however benevolently, as his descendent pierced her to the core in his dining room. 

Helpless, Molly let herself yield. “Do what you want with me, Sherlock,” Molly whispered. “I’m yours.”

Behind her, Sherlock inhaled sharply at her words. He laced the fingers of one hand into her hair and held her head down against the table, gripping her hip harness with the other to angle her pussy just as he liked it. Then, inexorably, he began to thrust.

Uncharacteristically, he made no move to touch her clit, and Molly understood that Sherlock was using her for his pleasure, as was his right, the right she’d given up to him. The thought aroused her unbearably even as it forced her down into a sweet despair. 

Despite his deliberate neglect, Molly’s climax had begun to coil deep in her belly, but then Sherlock came inside her with a growl of satisfaction. He pulled out of her and zipped himself back up, then patted her rump. “Ahh. Mmm. Good girl.” 

She heard his footsteps receding behind her and almost panicked. “Sherlock--!” 

“Never fear.” She heard the tinkle of crystal, the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass. Then he was at her side, settling himself into one of the dining chairs near her tied right hand. 

Molly boggled at him as he swished his amber liquor and took an unhurried sip. Was he just going to leave her like this, frantic for his touch? After a moment, Sherlock pulled at the loops of rope at her right wrist.

“There,” he said. “Look how kind I am. Your right hand is free, so if you’d like to come, you may.” He settled back in his chair to watch her. 

Oh, cruel. Of course, Janet and George were still dawdling around the room. In fact George was still peering at her, dusting the same figurine as the last time she’d looked.

Writhing in shame and desperation, Molly pulled her hand down to her pussy, pressed her legs tightly together, and screwed her eyes shut. She longed to come…she was so close. Could she, what with…everything? 

It took her less than a minute to discover that oh, yes, she certainly could. What she couldn’t hope to do was hide her trembling, or stifle her gasps of disgraceful pleasure. 

“That will be all, thank you,” she heard Sherlock saying as her heartbeat began to slow. “Please close the doors when you leave.”

She heard the latch close, and felt Sherlock move behind her again. Tenderly, he drew the plug out, its passage forcing one last delicious pulse from her. He untied her other wrist and removed her hip harness, being careful with her sore skin, after which he steered her gently on her wobbly legs toward the great wing chair. Sitting first, he wrapped Molly in a light blanket and settled her in his lap.

“How was that, my Molly?” His voice rumbled under her ear. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Strange. I liked…I liked being your plaything.” She smiled down at the impressions of his rope on her wrists. 

“And the others? How did it feel to have willing watchers? You’d asked for it to be out of doors, but we can do that too. This way, it was a surprise.”

“Oh. It was, um, difficult.” She could feel her ears growing hot again.

He lifted her chin so he could look into her face. “In a good way?” 

“Um. I think so. Mostly? It was sort of fun. To be embarrassed.” She cast her eyes down shyly, and Sherlock cradled her close.

“Well, I won’t bring up the diamonds again while we’re playing. I didn’t know how anxious that would make you.”

“I know. It’s fine.” She cuddled against him, drowsy now. “I think…I’d like to nap now.” 

“I’ll take you upstairs,” he said, lifting her. She was asleep before they reached the bed.

***

Molly woke to the sound of a clicking keyboard and opened her eyes on the green-and-gold room. She was back in the great white bed, afternoon sunlight gilding its smooth sheets. Sherlock sat nearby, fully dressed, with his laptop balanced on his bony knees. “Interesting,” he murmured as his eyes flickered over the screen.

“What’s interesting?” Molly asked sleepily, arching her body in a luxurious stretch.

He didn’t answer at first, just glanced down at her. He stroked a hand over her head as if she were a pet cat. 

“Meow,” Molly said, a little louder, and hooked her fingers into claws. She scratched insistently at his trouser leg as if to demand his attention.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the laptop and sighed dramatically. “What have I told you about jokes, Molly?” 

“Then tell me what you’re looking at.” Molly sat up, wincing as the sheets crinkled under the sore skin of her bum, and scooted next to Sherlock to look at his screen. It was full of what looked like lines of code.

“Someone sent a text this morning, just after nine-o’-clock. I’ve captured everything that travelled on the network.”

“I’m sure people sent dozens of texts this morning,” Molly said, frowning. “Along the lines of ‘Come save me, this posh git probably thinks I stole his diamonds.’”

Sherlock didn’t react to her sally. “Oddly enough, no. But here’s something that must be related to the theft.” He pointed at a line on the screen. 

Molly leaned in and raised an eyebrow. It was just a string of numbers: 52943160-0617451. 

“You’re sure that’s not part of the code, Sherlock?” 

“Oh, completely sure. Someone actually typed out all that and sent it to someone else. No further texts from either mobile. What’s more, from the area codes I can be fairly certain that both sender and recipient used burner phones. No lead there.”

“Now that’s strange.” Molly looked up at the clouds painted on the ornate ceiling. “What could it mean? It isn’t another mobile number---“

“It’s nothing I recognise,” Sherlock growled. “Eight numbers on either side of a hyphen. Feh.”

Molly watched him dithering for a few more moments, then reached out and plucked a tiny leaf from his curls. 

“What did you find, Sherlock? This morning, when you walked the grounds.”

“Mmm? Oh. Somebody jumped the fence. As I expected. Mycroft’s people will be scouring the county by now; I feel almost sorry for the thief. She will never be able to sell the thing.”

She, he’d said. Molly blinked. “Sherlock. Who is Edith? You mentioned that name, before. Do you think she’s the thief?”

“Definitely not. The one who took Edith’s place, however, almost certainly is.”

“The woman who spoke to me on the stairs.”

“Yes, her. She’s disappeared, but before that, she was calling herself Edith downstairs. I did hire an Edith, so no one batted an eye when the imposter arrived. But as it happens, somebody contacted the real Edith last week and told the job was cancelled. Mycroft’s people located her in Hong Kong an hour after the theft. A good alibi, as they go.”

Molly inhaled. “This is like a spy novel.”

“As I’ve said before, dear, welcome to my world.”

“And you’re even looking at codes and things.” Molly peered at Sherlock’s mysterious sequence of digits again, and had an idea. “Maybe it’s geographic coordinates? GPS?” 

Sherlock turned to her, his eyes full of something that looked very much like horror. 

“It’s not so ridiculous,” Molly said, nettled. “My cousin does geocaching, and she dragged me along once. Look here. The first eight would be the latitude, so fifty-two degrees north. That’s up around Northern Europe, isn’t it? Plus the rest of the string to get more precise. The second eight would be the longitude…makes sense if that hyphen is actually a minus sign. It’d be saying ‘negative zero point six something.’ That’s barely west of the Prime Meridian---“

But Sherlock had already pulled up a location finder website and plugged both numbers in: 52.943160 latitude by -0.617451 longitude. As the world map zoomed in, Molly watched the satellite picture resolve into a bird’s eye image of Ashmere House itself, with the pin centered on the northeast corner.

“Would you look at that.” Molly’s eyes widened with excitement. What if she were the one to lead Sherlock to the missing diamonds?

“Molly,” Sherlock said in a strangled voice, “I’d very much appreciate it if you would omit to mention this incident to Mycroft.”

“You mean, the fact that I thought of the solution before you?” All right, if he was going to pout, she’d gloat just a little.

“Yes,” he said, staring fixedly at the screen. “That.”

She decided to be merciful. “Well, what’s in the northeast corner of the house, Sherlock?” 

He sprang up and closed the laptop, suddenly full of frenetic energy. “That’s the chapel, and above it a bedroom. Plus the roof, of course. And there might even be something below, a storage room perhaps. Shall we go see?” 

Molly felt a little silly visiting the chapel in her dressing gown and slippers, but all she was required to do was stand aside and watch while Sherlock examined the room for anything that could illuminate a set of missing gems. The search was over quickly, much to Sherlock’s disgust. Nothing had disturbed the fine layer of dust that covered everything in the tall room. No one, he declared, had been in the chapel for a week or more. 

The upstairs bedroom wasn’t much better; water damage, it transpired, had caused the caretakers to close off the room until it could be repaired. Sure enough, when Sherlock picked the lock, more undisturbed dust covered the parquet floor.

“But the roof,” he exclaimed, slamming the bedroom door with a bang that made Molly wince. “A pickup point? How much weight might a drone carry?”

“African or European?” Molly murmured. Sherlock, perhaps luckily, didn’t hear her. He was already tearing down the hall to the stairs. 

But they didn’t find anything unusual on the roof, either, though Sherlock cast about for longer than Molly felt was necessary. The slope of that section was far too precarious for her comfort, and she cringed to see him scrambling over the gable. 

They even descended to the very lowest level, a hallway dug out below the semi-basement, where they quickly discovered that there was no storage room below the northeast corner.

“I would have thought you’d already know that, Sherlock,” Molly ventured as she followed Sherlock up the stairs to the main level. “About your own house.”

“Why? I wasn’t allowed down there as a boy. Didn’t mean I obeyed, of course, but it was deadly boring down there regardless, and damp in the winter. And our housekeeper was…”

“What, Sherlock?”

“Well…scary.” He turned to look down at her. “Don’t tell that to Mycroft either.”

“You know I won’t. But why do you care so much about what your brother thinks of you?”

“Who says I care? I don’t want to give him ammunition. That’s all. Now then,” he said, banging open the door to the entry hall. “Since we seem to have come to a dead end in the case, let’s talk about tomorrow, shall we?”

The case, he was calling it now. Molly smiled to herself. 

“Tomorrow? Oh, have you got something diabolical in mind?” Feeling coquettish, Molly faced him and let her dressing gown droop open, showing him one breast as if by accident. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked downward, and he quirked his mouth into a cool smile. “I’d say you’re getting the idea. But seriously, Molly, I want to make sure you consent before I make the final phone call.”

“Oh?” She drew her brows together, intrigued. 

“You remember Indra.” 

“Sherlock. Of course I do.” How could she forget Sherlock’s mentor, his former lover, who also happened to be one of the most compelling men she’d ever met?

“If you agree, I’d like to invite him to join us. No point keeping the grounds closed anymore, so we might as well enjoy it. I called him while you were napping, and he happens to be driving down from Edinburgh tomorrow. He said he could spend the afternoon.” He spoke lightly, but there was a glint in his eye that made Molly’s heart beat faster. 

“To do…what, exactly?” Her mouth went dry.

“That depends, doesn’t it. On all of us.” 

Fear and excitement iced Molly’s stomach as Sherlock forcefully pulled her close and spoke into her hair. “You belong to me, Molly, oh yes you do. But perhaps tomorrow we can explore exactly what that means.”


	5. And Yet

“Indra’s coming here.” Molly looked out the window into the wind-tossed foliage of a great tree, feeling excitement, shyness, and a kind of dread pooling deep in her chest. “Here to…play with us?”

“Within boundaries that suit us all.” Sherlock took a step back; out of the corner of her eye, she saw he was studying her. “That could mean as little as a cup of tea and a conversation, or as much…as much as we all want. Just tell me what you want, Molly, and I’ll set things in motion.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” What was she supposed to say to that? Molly kept watching the leaves, gilded by the late afternoon sun, restless in the high breeze. “I don’t know what I want. How I feel. I need...I need to think before I give you any sort of answer.”

He frowned for an instant, but nodded. She drew her dressing gown around her tightly. “I want my clothes, please. To walk the grounds.”

“A moment.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and tapped out a text. It was just a few moments before one of the staff appeared with Molly’s sundress and sandals. Sherlock watched her as she dressed.

“I’ll be in the library,” he said. A swift touch to her cheek, and he was gone.

Molly left by the back door and paused a moment on the steps, looking down into the formal garden; the flower beds smelt warm and sweet in the slanting sun. She craned her neck to look back up at the house. The windows seemed to stare down at her, and Molly glanced away. She crossed the strip of lawn and made for the line of trees.

Safe in their shelter, Molly took a deep breath of the wood-scented air and closed her eyes. “Indra,” she said aloud. That was not his name, of course. What was it, truly? Even in her mind his level gaze drew her in, and that silver hair shone above his handsome brown face. His powerful hands, his dazzling smile, the sense of power coiled and waiting. Oh, if she asked…and if Sherlock agreed…

Would Indra agree? Sherlock had already talked to him, laying out the proposal, so presumably he was interested. 

And what would Sherlock want? To watch? Indra was Sherlock’s former lover as well as his mentor; that attraction was still there. Molly would never forget the gorgeous sight of Sherlock kissing Indra on the steps at Indra’s party. She hadn’t been at all jealous---

But the image of another unforgettable kiss drifted into her mind, and she gritted her teeth. The memory of rounding a corner to see Sherlock, her Sherlock, bending over another woman, her eyes wide and hypnotised. Ice in Molly’s veins as Sherlock put his mouth on the woman’s mouth. The sour taste of vomit as Molly bent over the morgue’s toilet, crying almost too hard to see. 

That had been---so ugly. Never again, case or no case…or Molly would leave. She’d made that clear.

Now Sherlock was offering this. Was it some misguided attempt to even the score? To carve out his own pound of flesh for her sake? She hoped not. And yet.

Molly wandered through the woods as the afternoon began to fail, the whispering of the leaves a counterpoint to the thousand thoughts in her mind.

She found herself standing in front of a wise old oak with slats of wood nailed into its trunk. Her eyes followed the rungs upward, and there in the spreading branches crouched a dilapidated treehouse, green moss misting up its damp sides.

This was no elaborate, carpenter-built treehouse, she saw, though it did have a roof and four walls. It had been cobbled together by someone provided with good materials and plenty of nails but not much knowledge of building---perhaps Sherlock himself. The thought made Molly’s heart clench. 

Would it still hold together after thirty-odd years? Surely it was foolhardy to climb those rungs, but Molly’s steps were sure, and the nails held. When her head was level with the treehouse floor, she saw that the tree itself had begun to grow around the structure, likely saving it from collapse. Carefully, she moved off the makeshift ladder onto the platform. It creaked under her weight but seemed solid enough.

The interior was dim and a bit smelly, strewn with rotting leaves that had blown into the entry. She read “WSSH 1986” scrawled in black marker across one wall. Sherlock, as she’d thought. 

More markings were visible in one corner. Molly bent and squinted at the faint letters, half covered over with black mould. Was it a list of names? Yes, here was “Mycroft Holmes,” next to several small gouges in the wood to the left and right. More names she didn’t recognise had similar gouges to either side, different numbers of them. Something about it was disturbing, and Molly decided not to look any closer.

She moved on, soon discovering a wooden box that looked a bit like a treasure chest. Gingerly, she nudged it with her foot. Nothing exploded or fired off, so she knelt and opened the lid.

The jumbled remains of unidentifiable electronic components, prized apart, likely with the yellow-handled screwdriver. A faded, dirty dog collar. A glass eye. What looked like an elbow piece from a set of antique armour, exquisitely chased. And in the bottom, four hardbound books, identical and unmarked. The pages were warped with moisture, but still free in places. Were they textbooks? Molly cracked one open.

The scrawl was childish, but the content was not. _Recipe for pandemonium,_ she read in black biro, the last word traced over many times, obsessively. _React mercury(II) chloride with potassium thiocyanate to form precipitate of mercury thiocyanate and ignite in drawing room fireplace 25/12/87 after tea. Plan: on 20/12/87, obtain reagents…_

Molly’s mouth fell open. Mercury compounds? Was this a diabolical junior chemist’s journal of exploits? She opened to another page.

_There’s a new boy in the village this autumn, Owen. Lives behind the pub on the main road. He has green eyes and looks younger than me but he’s in year 6 at that school so we must be the same age. He keeps frogs in boxes. Mum says boys don’t fancy boys but clearly that’s another lie so I’m going to talk to him tomorrow and maybe---_

Molly caught herself. She shut the book and set it down. This was clearly private, and she wasn’t meant to read it. 

She leaned against the wall, pulled her legs close, and stared out the doorway into the forest beyond, just thinking, for a long while. Only when sunset streaked across the sky and threatened to catch her up the tree in darkness did she climb down.

&&&&&

“I’ve decided what I want,” she told Sherlock from the library door.

Sherlock glanced at her. He was sat on the library’s rug before a low fire, staring into its depths and twiddling the bow of his violin. “Well?”

Molly swallowed. “I do want to play with Indra, have him touch me. But nothing else. Just…hands. Indra is fascinating, but I belong to you.” She knelt beside him and extended her hand. Sherlock took it, held it tightly, but kept staring into the coals.

Molly tilted her head, trying to read him. “Are you disappointed?”

“I may possibly be a touch…relieved?” He sounded almost surprised.

Molly frowned. “Then why offer, if you didn’t want me to accept?”

“I’m rather proud of you, you know,” he said lowly. “Aside from the inexplicable fact that you stay with me…what with, well, everything…” He closed his eyes for a second. “...I admit I wanted to show you off. To Indra. He’s been trying to get me to form a proper relationship for years.”

Molly smiled a little. “And you’re hoping he’ll tell you, ‘Well done’?”

“Something like that.” He jumped up, began to pace in his stocking feet. “But when I mentioned him, you seemed upset.”

“Not upset. Confused.” She turned on the hearth rug to look up at him, fingers twiddling nervously at the skirt of her sundress. “Earlier today you had others watch us, and then you talked about bringing in another man. Isn't it just the two of us?”

He set the bow carefully in the violin case, closed the lid on the instrument. “Of course it is. But whenever we’ve been more public, I found I enjoyed the tension. The pull to return to you alone. And the returning.”

“I think I understand that.” Molly remembered how sweet it had been to be alone with Sherlock again after public play, today and also at Indra’s party all those months ago. “This is further than we’ve ever gone, though. You will be there too, won’t you? Because I’ll only want this if you’re there.”

Something stirred in his smile, something dark and possessive. She’d pleased him. “Oh, yes. The concept of ‘showing you off’ is a rather literal one in my mind. But don’t forget, Indra must agree too.”

“How far would he want to go with me, do you think?”

He raised a brow. “I’ve no idea.”

As they looked at each other, the gong sounded again.

“I’m going to stop them doing that,” Sherlock muttered, and stooped next to her to retrieve his shoes. Molly resisted the urge to tug on his nape curl.

“I rather like the gong,” Molly said, grinning. “And they’re just having a bit of fun. It is a bit ridiculous, you know. Hired servants and that. Playing house.”

He said nothing, only fumbled with his laces with eyes downcast. Molly’s smile faded; he looked rather hurt. Oh, of course; he’d worked hard to set all this up, to please her. Still, to remonstrate with him seemed even more ridiculous. A change of subject, then.

“I found your treehouse,” she ventured. “And your diary.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, dipped his head to glance out the window. “I assume you opened it,” he said to the long sweep of the curtain. “Well? What did you read?” 

“Not much. I put it down when I realised it was a diary,” she told him hastily. “Ah...something about setting mercury compounds alight? At Christmas tea?” He began to move again; she turned her head to follow his restive prowling. 

“Ah yes.” He glanced toward the fireplace grate, crooked his mouth in a half-smile. “Pharaoh’s Serpent is a rather entertaining reaction, though it does throw off mercury vapor. Bit toxic, I suppose. Not good for parties.”

Molly took a breath. “I should think. Did they evacuate the house?” 

“Mm. After that year I was not allowed to open my gifts until Christmas Day had passed _sans_ any more...pandemonium.” A roll of his eyes. Not for the first time, Molly wondered how his mum and dad had managed to raise Sherlock Holmes to adulthood alive. “What else did you read, Molly?”

She looked at him sidelong. “Only one other thing. Something about an Owen.”

Abruptly Sherlock stopped his pacing, narrowed his eyes. “What about him, exactly?”

“Um. Just that he was a boy your age. Who liked frogs. A boy you fancied? I stopped there.” Molly almost bit her lip.

“Ah.” His shoulders sagged. “Owen. Yes.” 

“Did you talk to him after all?” Molly asked, curious. “You wrote---”

“Oh yes. I talked to him.” Sherlock rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. “I brought him a sort of frog he’d not seen before. I kissed him. Later he kissed me back. That day went rather well.” 

“That day?”

“Later in the week I went to meet him, and he’d brought about ten mates along. Well, maybe not ten. But enough. I found out that some little boys get angry when other little boys kiss them. Even...especially...if they liked it.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” How old had he been? Eleven?

He shrugged, rubbed absently at his jaw. “Worst part was the dental surgeon, after. Come on. Let’s go see what Sara’s knocked up for dinner tonight.”

Dinner, it transpired, was served on the very dining room table upon which Sherlock had laid her earlier, with the doors flung wide. Those doors stood closed now, but Molly couldn’t look at the vase of cut flowers on the sideboard, nor the meticulously dusted bric-a-brac. At least the light was different now that it grew dark outside. 

She sniffed the delectable fragrances in the air. “Oh, chips again.” At least Sara the cook hadn’t fled in utter fear of Sherlock.

“I like chips. They’re efficient.” Sherlock reached for some as he pulled out his chair, tucked them in his face as he sat. 

Molly laughed. “Efficient? You mean, the most calories with the least amount of chewing, since you can’t be bothered to eat most of the time?”

“How well you know me.” He licked salt and grease off his fingers. 

Beside the chips was a rather pleasant curry, and Molly tucked in with a will. As she ate she watched Sherlock fire off a series of texts. 

“Who are you talking to?” she asked between bites. “Indra?”

“Mycroft.” He looked up; his face was sullen. “About the diamonds. He wants to know if there’s been any progress ‘on our end,’ as he says.”

Would that man never leave them be? Molly set down her fork, a bit shaken. “I take it he hasn’t found anything?”

“His people are baffled, amazingly enough. Mycroft says it’s as if the thief disappeared at the perimeter. He wants me to ‘stop messing about’ and come out to help.” 

“Are you going to?” 

Sherlock just gave her a look, then resumed texting at light speed. After a few more moments, he looked up and smiled. 

“Indra says he’ll arrive at noon. Hands only, you said?” Sherlock texted some more, then laughed. “Indra says that’s not nearly specific enough. He’s correct, of course.” He squinted at the screen. “Oh, there’s a caveat, he says. Wants to discuss it tomorrow.”

“I see.” Molly wondered what that meant. Could be anything, really. She gave a quiet sigh. Two hearts were complicated enough. But three?

Sherlock whisked his phone away and stood. “Are you finished?”

Molly contemplated the rest of her food. Between Mycroft and dithering over Indra, she’d quite lost her appetite. “Yes.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets. “I would like to go to bed,” he announced. 

“I would like to come with you.” Molly stood and rounded the table, but Sherlock didn’t move. “What?”

“Last night,” he said, hands still in his pockets. “I liked it.”

“You mean, playing prince and captured princess?” Molly’s heart jumped. “Well...what did you like about it?”

A slow blink of those chill blue eyes. “It was novel.”

“Is that all?” Molly drew closer, reached up to toy with his collar. “Novelty wears off.”

“I don’t mean only that it was my first time at role-play. I meant…” A long inhale. “Do you remember our first time?”

“Which first time do you mean?” she asked, rather archly. “In the lab? Or at Baker Street, with the rope? Or in your bed after I…”

“After you gave me your ultimatum? That time,” he said. “When I was inside you at last.” 

“Of course I do.” Molly smiled, let her eyes slip closed. “That was...good. Very good. Bit fast.”

“Because neither of us could wait a moment longer. Molly, I want to do that again. All that.” 

“Um.” An odd blend of arousal and trepidation settled uneasily in her gut. “You mean you want to pretend we’re back...there and then?”

“I’m not expressing myself well, am I.” Sherlock stepped back from her, turned, leaned his hands against the sideboard. Despite herself, Molly hummed low in appreciation. She very much liked the shirt he was wearing. 

“Not particularly well,” she said, letting her eyes trail down the elegant line of his back. “But I don’t mind. Take your time.”

“I mean I want to pretend we’re...different people, while we go through it all,” he said to the sideboard.

“Yes. That’s what role-play is,” she answered patiently. Oh, that slim waist. She bit her lip. That arse…

He turned his head; his mouth twitched as if he were tempted to smile. “Naughty. I mean...I want to fight. With you. And then---”

“Wait. You want to have a fake row? And then a make-up shag? I don’t think you can pretend that sort of thing.” Molly rubbed her head. “Besides, it isn’t fun to fight.”

“Isn’t it?" Sherlock frowned. "What if I promise to be the one in the wrong?” 

It probably wouldn’t do to say he usually was, whenever they fought. “Oh, Sherlock. It’s not the thought of losing that bothers me. It’s the row itself. Being at odds.” Molly turned away, leaned back against the sideboard herself. “I hate having to fight. It makes me anxious.”

“And women are socialised to avoid conflict at all costs. I see.”

Surprised, Molly searched his face. “Since when are you aware of that?” 

“Part of my job, actually. Behaviour analysis. A job I could do better, clearly. Fine, no row if you feel that way. We’ll try something else.”

“Good.” Molly sighed with relief. “I did like being the captured princess.”

“What did you like about it?” Sherlock echoed her earlier words. Not mockingly, but earnestly, as if he meant to learn from her example.

“Well, apart from the fact that I enjoyed watching you try to understand what was happening, I liked begging you to touch me. Being your captive. And I liked...being a virgin.”

“Mm. And I liked taking your virginity. Ridiculous as the concept is, we both enjoyed that. I wonder why.”

“Well, it’s pure fantasy, you know. Real life tends to be disappointing in that department.”

“Oh? What was your first time like?” he asked lightly.

“Rather terrible.” She looked aside. “Grade twelve. I was in his flat---”

“Wait---what year twelve boy has a flat?” Sherlock folded his arms, biceps twitching restively.

“Well, he was twenty-six.” At the look on Sherlock’s face, she sighed. “I know. At the time I was flattered. At any rate, I was too nervous, and he...couldn’t, at first, until he got out a bottle of something. Then it was five minutes of him pushing and gasping, and he fell asleep. I was sore after. And disappointed.”

“Useless prat.” His hands clenched, twitched. “What was his---”

“I’m not telling you his name, Sherlock. And don’t you try to find it out.” Molly crossed her own arms.

“Hmph.” He appeared to subside, but she could plainly see his gears turning; he was cataloguing known facts about her past, forming theories. Her eyes widened in alarm.

“Stop it, Sherlock. I’m serious. Even if selfishness were a crime, the statute of limitations is a bit past.” She waited until his face registered that slight resentment that meant he’d given it up, albeit reluctantly. Oh, this man. “Well, come on,” she said brightly. “How about you, then?”

He blinked. “What---oh. My first. That was in boarding school. Pretty chap, name of Brandon. We were both in---calculus?---some little maths class, anyway. He kept asking me to sneak away after lights-out and, ah, tutor him. Smart mouth, so I put it to better use.” He smirked.

“Oh. Well, if we’re defining first times that way....” Molly frowned. Had that been John? Or Matthew, at the campground? Or---

“See? Ridiculous concept. And yet.” He turned to her, gathered her close. “Would you like to lose your virginity yet again, Molly?”

She swayed against him. “Do you have something in mind?”

He released her and crossed to the doors, opened them a little. “I’ll take the lead this time. Janet,” he called into the hall; the fox-faced woman appeared immediately. He gave her swift instructions in a low voice, and with a nod she disappeared.

Sherlock spoke to Molly over his shoulder. “Wait five minutes,” he told her, “then go up and get yourself ready for bed. I’ll be there soon.” And just like that, he was gone. Well, he’d taken the lead all right. 

There was no clock in the dining room, so Molly waited until she thought five minutes had passed, then headed upstairs. She washed and brushed as quickly as possible, so curious: what would Sherlock do? 

Finally she slipped into the green-and-gold room; it was dimly lit once more by the single candelabra. On the small table she found an old-fashioned nightgown, all gathers and lace, underneath a folded card that said only, “Wear to bed.” She smiled. Soon her sundress and sandals were folded neatly away, and Molly turned back the covers and laid her head on the pillow, with the satin ribbons of the nightie tied demurely under her chin. She waited.

And waited. Where was Sherlock? Molly yawned as she watched the candle flames dancing, and her eyelids grew heavy. Presently she found herself drifting into a pleasant doze, lulled by the gentle warmth of the bed and the creamy candlelight. Perhaps Sherlock was delayed, having to talk to Mycroft or some such. She turned over on her side, getting nice and comfortable.

_Tap, tap._

Molly raised her head, laid it down again. The old house must be settling. She closed her eyes once more.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Molly sat up. That sounded---had it come from the door? She drew back the covers and set her feet on the rug. 

_Tap-tap-tap-tap!_

She turned. The window. She moved on silent feet, reached for the curtain. A fearful thought raced through her mind---what if it was the diamond thief?---but she relaxed as she pulled the drape aside, for there beyond the wavy glass was her Sherlock, clinging to the frame and biting his lip rather fetchingly. 

“Miss Williams. Margaret. Would you please let me in?” he asked, voice made distant by the window, eyes wide and pleading. Molly drew a swift breath. Had he climbed to the window from the ground---from the roof? “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said as she hesitated. “I had to. Please.”

She opened the casement, and he tumbled inside along with a chill little breeze that bent the candle flames. He landed in a crouch at her feet, and she saw he was wearing a simple linen shirt with bracers, wool trousers, and dirty boots, all rather quaint and smelling a bit stale. He looked up at her. 

“I’m sorry. Please forgive my boldness. I could not stay away,” he said. He reached for her hand, kissed it fervently. 

“Why, you’re cold as ice---” He needed a name. “Jack,” she said at last. How long had he been out there? “Won’t you stand up?” 

“I don’t dare,” Sherlock said, “Lest I be seen in your chamber. Oh, Miss Williams. Forgive me my intrusion on this night of all nights. But I could not watch you marry that hateful old cad tomorrow without telling you...” He cringed, the picture of misery.

Ah, Molly was getting the idea. She let her breath come faster. “Without telling me...what?” 

Still on his knees, Sherlock caught both her hands in his and spoke in a reckless rush. “Miss Williams, I adore you. Your good heart, your kindness to me, though I don’t deserve to clean the dirt from your boots---” He broke off, bowed his head. “I am sorry. This is not fair. But Miss Williams---”

“Oh, Jack. Call me Margaret again,” she said. With her free hand she closed the casement behind him, pulled the curtain to shut out all eyes. Then she tugged him to his feet. “I have no choice but to marry Lord John. But...I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said shyly, looking up through her lashes at his widening eyes. 

“Why, Margaret?” he asked in a whisper, and Molly’s heart thudded in her breast as if she were truly about to rebel.

“Because before I marry that horrible man, I want...I’ve always wanted...one night with you,” she told him. “With you, Jack. Kiss me. Oh, kiss me, please.” 

His lips parted in excitement, and he gave one hard pant before reaching out to seize her by the arms. His mouth claimed hers, and she whimpered, then moaned into his kiss.

When they broke apart at last, his hands began to roam freely. His voice sounded against her neck. “Margaret, are you sure? Would you really let me---”

“Yes, oh yes,” she said, hardly having to pretend a quaver as his hand cupped one breast through her nightgown. “I want you to be my first. Let us cheat Lord John. I won’t deny myself for his sake. Jack, please.”

He swayed with her. “Oh, Margaret. I have wanted you for so long.”

“Then have me,” she whispered. She reached up and pulled her nightgown over her head, tossed it to the floor. She stood before him, her bare skin kissed by the candlelight; his eyes devoured her greedily. 

“You are so beautiful.” He pushed against her, and she felt his erection straining at the front of his trousers. She slipped a hand down to cup him there, savouring his groan. 

“How do I---?” Genuinely stymied by the old-fashioned trousers, Molly fumbled until Sherlock released the fastenings himself. But before taking them off he bent to remove his boots, leaning his face toward her for awkward, bumping kisses all the while. This done, he pressed her back to sit on the bed. 

“Mmm. Jack.” Molly watched him sling off his bracers one side at a time; he then swiftly unbuttoned his linen shirt and flung it aside. Oh, he looked very nice like this, naked to the waist with his bracers hanging down by his slim hips. He knelt before her and laid his head on her lap, his chest pressing her legs. 

“Margaret. I must be dreaming,” he said against her thigh.

“Then I am dreaming too. Please touch me, Jack.” 

And he did. Oh, he was being so gentle with her it almost broke her heart, his hands sliding warm about her waist and up her back, his mouth worshipful on her breasts. He urged her to lie back on the bed, and leaned his head down to touch his lips to the bare seam of her sex. “Margaret. Would you open your legs for me?” 

She did it shyly, and he kissed along the soft inside of her thighs, so shy himself that Molly lifted her head and murmured, “Ah, Jack. Is this your first time, too?”

“I can't see any other woman,” he told her. “Not truly.” He dipped his curly head, and Molly lay back once more. Soon she was arching and gasping at the force of his hunger, at the way he seemed to drink her in. She threaded her fingers through his curls, traced the line of one low-angled brow with her thumb, and all the while he was watching her, the cold blue of his eyes warmed and softened by the candlelight. 

She needed him. “Please,” she said, and caught at the hands that cradled her hips. “I don’t want to wait.” 

Intent, he crawled up onto the bed and searched her face. She watched him produce an actual handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wipe his face carefully clean before leaning down to kiss her once more; it seemed this Jack was a fastidious sort. She reached for his trousers, tugged them down. 

Soon they were both naked, each exulting in the other’s nakedness, rolling from side to side in a treasuring embrace. Molly moaned; he’d made sure she was nearly desperate for him before he mounted her, and now she opened her thighs wide and reached down to touch him. “For you, Jack,” she said into his ear, thrilling to his anguished moan. “Only for you.” 

“I should not love you so. But I cannot help it,” he said. “Oh, Margaret---”

Molly was struck with inspiration, by a way to broaden the story they were creating. “Then let us run away together,” she said. “I won’t marry Lord John. I can’t. I would rather be with you than…”

But she stopped, for Sherlock had stilled above her; had he gone pale? “You would marry me instead?” he said in tones of disbelief, and Molly was shocked to feel his erection begin to flag under her fingertips. “I could not ask that. A woman like you is...not for such as me. Margaret.”

A chill trickle of dismay in her belly. She’d said something wrong, something that had shaken him. But clearly he was still playing the game.... “Don’t say that. Oh, let’s not speak at all,” she said, stroking him more expertly than Margaret would know how, until he was ready for her, and more than ready. “Now, let me feel you inside me.”

She urged him forward, and he slid carefully in until she was full, so full of his cock, their connection so warm and right. “Are you all right?” he asked, pushing her hair away from her face. 

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She twined her legs around his waist. Unbidden her mind flashed for one instant to that night almost twenty years ago when she’d lain under a man for the first time. She turned away from the memory. No musty sheets here, no uncapped lube bottle dribbling into her hair, no smoker’s breath in her face or strange pain between her legs. Here was warm candlelight, her lover’s silky skin, the faint scent of her own musk on his lips, and the wanting, the wishing for him to move.

But as they hovered, poised to fall into the storm, a stillness settled over them both---something soft and almost sacred. “I love you,” he whispered, the words trembling in the air, and her heart gave a pang to hear that near-silent confession. Should she tell him the same? 

But before she could speak, he laid violin-callused fingertips on her lips. “No. Just feel me.” And he cradled her close and surged over her, slow and steady, locking her into his rhythm, pulling her into the flood. For an uncountable time they moved together, there in the centre of that great room that was empty but for their white bed.

When she came it was a warm upwelling in her belly; she did not cry out, for Margaret would have kept silent, guarded this stolen time against all ears. He watched her face with reverence and something sadder in his eyes before his lips parted and he exhaled his own silent release. 

When Molly came back to herself, she held Sherlock's head against her shoulder and stared past his sweat-damp curls, her eyes fixing on a bit of the gilded ceiling. What had just happened between them? Of course there had been make-believe, but to Molly it had felt too much like truth. Something had gone askew, but what?

“I have to go,” he murmured into her hair. 

Molly didn’t know how to respond. Was it Jack who said it, or Sherlock? Somehow she could not bear to ask. “No, stay.” She drew him nearer, ashamed of her cowardice. 

“I don’t dare,” he said. He was Jack, then, at least this second. “Your brothers would kill me if they knew I’d even tried to see you, let alone…” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Let alone did this.” 

Well, if they were still playing… “Please stay with me. And---and give me more hope for a child. I don’t want Lord John’s. Oh---wait.” Molly stiffened in real alarm, their game forgotten in a moment. “Sherlock. I never took my pill this morning.” 

He didn’t move. “You still have time to take it. It’s only one pill, so the risk is negligible. Relax, Molly.” 

Oh, that was rich, coming from him. “I never missed one before.” Molly pushed at his shoulders, set on grabbing her dressing gown and crossing to the bathroom for her pill case, but gasped; Sherlock was still inside her, and she could feel him stirring, growing hard once more.

“Margaret,” he said, and touched her cheek. “Do you really mean that? You want my child?”

This was strange. She peered, trying to read him, even as her heart gave a painful throb. “Of course I do,” she said, not knowing who spoke the words. 

His brows drew together, his mouth grew tight, and he gripped her with fresh urgency. “Then I will stay. Oh, Margaret. You break my heart.” 

Molly did sob then, and seized him in an iron grip. She urged him on, faster and faster, not seeking another peak for herself but only watching him in fascination. He was pushing himself, she could see; he’d not really been ready for a second round, but he was following some deeper need. When he finished at last, it was with gasps of relief. 

“That looked like it hurt,” she observed after he’d moved off and and collapsed, red-faced, beside her. 

“Not far wrong,” he said faintly. “Oh, Molly.” 

She turned over, laid her cheek on his firm shoulder, spoke carefully. “Sherlock. What was that about? You’ve never....”

He looked over at her. “It excited me. Knowing you’d missed your pill.”

Molly’s drew a sharp breath. “I would have thought you’d...that it would put you off. Even the idea of…” She couldn’t quite say it. Had barely ever allowed herself to think it...

“Highly unlikely. It was only one pill.” He looked at the ceiling again. “Besides, impregnation is the most logical fetish imaginable. Biologically speaking.”

Astonished to her core, Molly rolled onto her back again. His hand sought hers, and together they looked up into the oval window of clouds painted on the ceiling. Minutes ticked by, and Molly searched for words, though she was getting sleepier by the second. At last she gave it up as a bad job; she’d sort out her thoughts tomorrow. For now...she yawned. 

“Molly,” she heard, and her eyes snapped open. He was levering up on one elbow to regard her. “Do you ever want to row with me but stay quiet, because you’d rather avoid the conflict?”

She looked away a moment. “Yes.” 

“What about?”

Oh, Sherlock. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Not if you don’t want to. But I ought to say...well. I know I get rather caught up, and sometimes fail to consider you. I’m trying to do better, but...” He sighed, hung his head. “I’m so useless at this. But what I mean to say is...Molly, I want to hear you. When something’s wrong, I want you to tell me.”

His blue eyes focussed in on her face, intent, as if he were considering once more a puzzle that had baffled him for ages. Maybe to him she was exactly that, Molly thought, touched. She laid a hand aside his face, smoothed his hair from his temple. “All right, Sherlock. I will. I’ll speak up.” 

“Good.” He lay back, his gaze wandering to the ceiling once more. “Because I couldn’t bear it if you left because of something I could have fixed and didn’t, because I never heard you.”

He gripped her hand once more, and a strange happiness bloomed in Molly’s heart before her eyes slipped closed at last.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to my valiant betas liathwen, ariel_x, and miz-joely! And wild applause toward Brit-picker, history lover, photographer, and collector of priceless knowledge aberlioness for her able assistance with the all-important setting for this little tale. Truly you're sine qua non!


End file.
